


Stalker In Our Midst

by yanagi



Series: Tony!SEAL verse [14]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanagi/pseuds/yanagi
Summary: Tim has a stalker ... again. No one is really pleased.





	Stalker In Our Midst

For some reason this story fought me every inch of the way. I’m not really pleased with it but I’ve tweaked it until it screamed. 

As usual, thanks to my lovely betas Jake and Jordre for all their hard work.

 

Stalker In Our Midst.

 

[Chapter 1]

Gibbs eyed the letter on McGee’s desk. He didn’t like the look of it at all. There had been some rather vicious pranks played on his junior agent in the last few weeks, and he didn’t like it. McGee had blamed the itching powder on AJ, but AJ had denied it and proven he hadn’t done it. Now things were getting worse. And the notes were just downright creepy.

He still shuddered every time he remembered the letter that Tony had opened. Y. pestis in a letter was no joke. And this was beginning to look like that sort of thing. 

Tim eyed the letter on his blotter. “Is that vetted?” He wasn’t about to open any letter that hadn’t gone through the NCIS mail room. Not after the itching powder. 

Gibbs put on a pair of gloves and carefully turned the letter over. “Nope.” He eased it into an evidence bag that Tony produced. “Thanks, AJ. Call Abby up to collect this piece a’ shit.”

Tony made the call on his desk phone. None of them made interoffice calls on their cells; it was a nuisance, as they usually had to go find the damn thing, especially Abby. She kept her cell in her pack in her office, as she didn’t want it exposed to the chemicals in her lab. She also kept one desk phone in her office and another in the lab; the one in the lab had to be replaced on a regular basis. 

Abby scurried into her office and shut the sliding glass door. “Labby. Speak.”

“Abs, come up and get a letter. Someone left it on McGee’s desk. Wasn’t vetted. I wanna know who left it.” Gibbs hung up. 

Abby eyed the phone in her hand for a moment then sighed. “Gibbs. A little more information would be helpful. Really.” She shrugged and picked up her kit.

She went up and collected the letter, irradiated it, then opened it in a safe box. She hated the gloves, they made her clumsy, but she knew better than to open anything like that bare-handed. The last time she’d done that, Gibbs hadn’t brought her a Caf-Pow in a week, Tony had given her a sad head shake, and Dean and Cosmo had put shaving cream in her locker, her shoes, and her purse. Remy had told her that doing that was as bad as burning the roux. Tim and Jimmy had both taken the opportunity to lecture her, while Ducky had just tut-tutted and offered her tea. She’d taken a calming sip, only to realize that it had been salted. 

So now she used the hated plexiglass box with the weird rubber gloves and opened the letter. It was a big disappointment. It was written on cheap printer paper, and the envelope was the common, self-sealing sort you could buy at Wal-mart or Target, the sort with the blue pattern on the inside. She didn’t read the letter; it wasn’t hers. She checked for fingerprints, hairs, fibers, and chemicals. She even sampled the adhesive, not that that was going to do any good. She actually hated self-sealing envelopes, as they weren’t that valuable for evidence. With the kind you had to moisten, lots of people forgot and actually licked them; it made them a great way to get DNA― saliva was full of that.

It turned out that there was nothing dangerous in the letter; no powders, no letter bomb, not even a glitter bomb. Abby was also pissed to find that there wasn’t anything else either; no DNA, no hairs, fibers, fingerprints or anything else useful. The paper was poor quality printer paper, the envelope the most common self-stick on the market. No help there either. Abby grumbled, “I could buy shit at Wal-mart and leave more clues.” She wrote up her report and took the whole thing up herself; the mail guy was nice, but he’d lost a report last week, and she was punishing him by taking things up herself. She actually might continue that, as it was more fun than having people invade her lab, or just handing things off to the mail guy or sending off an email.

Abby trotted off the elevator, saw Remy at Gibbs’ desk, and sighed. “Ok, what’s AJ done now?”

Remy frowned down at her, then said, “Can’t find ‘im. Makes me nervous. Jet’s lookin’ for him.”

Abby winced, “Ouch. Well, here’s Timmy’s letter. Not a damn thing worth messing with.”

“What’s it say?” Remy craned his neck to try to read it.

Abby dropped the evidence envelope on Tim’s desk. “Don’t know. Not mine, so I didn’t read it. You’re not reading it either. Nosy.”

Remy shook his head. “Ya’ll’s no fun.”

Abby swatted him on the arm, saying, “Am too. Ya’ll’s just a damn swamp trottin’ redneck.”

Remy snorted, then allowed, “Yes’m, am that. So, anything good?”

Abby pouted. “Not a thing. Not even the teensiest bit of fiber. Whoever sent that is good.”

Dean eyed the letter with disfavor. “Too good. I don’t like it.”

Cosmo nodded at the letter. “Gibbs’ll have a cow.”

Tony walked up behind him and offered, “One with mad cow disease.”

Cosmo and Dean both jumped. Dean yelped, “Damn it, AJ. Bell ... seriously.”

Gibbs appeared just then with an envelope in his gloved hand. “I remembered this. It’s not junk mail.” He eyed the envelope with some suspicion. “It was on the seat of my truck. Tim sat on it, I told him to toss it; just fished it out of the trash bag.”

He listened as Abby gave him a run-down of what she knew, which, she admitted, wasn’t much. 

“So, okay, not much of anything. Everything’s common as dirt. What’s that?” She eyed the dark envelope in Gibbs’ hand well aware that she really hadn’t been paying attention to him the first time.

“Not sure if it’s anything. Like I said, Tim sat on it in my truck. Thought it was junk mail, but ... on further consideration, it needs a look-see.” He handed it to Abby, who took it by opening an evidence bag she pulled from a pocket and waiting while Gibbs put the envelope in it.

“Ok, I’ll take it down and go over it. Someone tell me what’s in that letter. I’ll be back in ... about an hour.” She padded away, surprisingly quiet on her platform soles.

Gibbs, meanwhile, was having the aforementioned cow. “What the hell? What’s going on? McGee?”

Tim was reading the letter with a scowl on his face. “Boss, I don’t like this.” He handed the letter to Gibbs.

Gibbs read the letter then handed it off to Tony. “AJ, I really don’t like the tone of that at all.”

Tony read and passed it on again. Dean and Cosmo stood on either side of Remy, and all three men read the letter together. When they finished Remy said, “Well, that’s just tasty.”

Dean sighed. “We takin’ this seriously?”

Cosmo whacked him in the head, “Yes, jackass, we’re takin’ this very seriously.”

“Ow! Damn it! Just askin’. I’d be takin’ it serious if it was me, but who the hell knows what NCIS might consider serious and what ... some sort of joke or something.” Dean gave Cosmo an indignant look. “Jerk.”

Tony offered, “This blows on an epic scale. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll be sorry.’ Careful of what? Sorry ... how? And it’s so damn vague.” He looked at Tim. “You officially have a fucking stalker. Damn it.”

Tim frowned, “Won’t be the first one. My publisher has a whole file of nut letters. That doesn’t take into account the email. She says they’re mostly fluff ... marry me or I’ll die ... that sort of shit. But there’s a few she turned over to the police. I’ll have her email copies. Nothing much to most of them.” He didn’t notice the irritated looks the other men were giving him.

.

Leon Vance wasn’t pleased to find Abby in his office. It wasn’t that he disliked Abby, quite the contrary, but her in his office was never a good thing.

“Ok, Gibbs will throw a conniption fit but ...” she handed him a folder. “I went over all this with a fine tooth comb ... nothing, zip, zilch, fuck all ... whatever...” She waved a hand. “I copied the letters but didn’t read them. Not my business but ... I think we have a problem.”

Leon Vance was no one’s fool; mistaken, misinformed, or biased, at times, but not a fool. Anytime Abby made that face, he worried. 

“Very well, Miss Sciuto. What do we have?” He picked up the folder and examined the copies of ... letters? “I see. Copies?”

“The originals are in evidence at DCPD and I’m thinking there are more out there that we don’t know about. I’m just not sure where.” Abby bit her lip as she tried to figure out where else Tim would be getting letters. She decided the best thing was just to ask him.

She was a bit late to the party as the saying goes. She got to the bullpen just in time to hear Gibbs ask exactly that.

Tim sighed. “My old apartment is gone; they declared the building unsalvageable and tore it down. So, here, my publishing house, Mallard Manor, and GHQ. I’ll call my editor and ask her to send the crazy file over.” 

Gibbs shook his head. “That’ll take three or four days. I ... Remy, Dean?”

Remy shook his head, “Dean and Cos. I’m stayin’ here with AJ.”

Tony took exception to that, saying, “Damn it, LeBeau, I’m not helpless. You’re hoverin’.”

Remy just shrugged in an elegant, French way and replied, “I am, Badger, that I am. Deal.”

Gibbs looked from one to the other. “McGee doesn’t go take a shit without someone there to smell it.” He glared at Tim as he opened his mouth to say something. “Shut up. Abby’s idiot, stalking ex-boyfriend nearly killed her. Not goin’ through that shit with you.”

Tim shut up.

Then Tony chimed in, “And remember that nutjob ... what was his name? The one who got your typewriter ribbons and read them, then killed ...” He glanced up from his iPhone to see the look on Tim’s face. “Well, never mind that. Point is ... you’re squirrel bait. Deal.”

Gibbs looked the group over, then obviously did some quick thinking. “Okay. Tim, Jimmy, and you live with Ducky; that makes it easy to keep an eye on him,” he jerked his thumb at Tim. “He doesn’t leave the house alone, ever, until we find this nutjob and figure out what his agenda is. If the Pod has to go on an op, I’ll come live at Mallard Manor until you’re all back.”

Tim started to argue and got a smack in the back of his head from Remy. “Do’an argue. You mess wit’ us, we’ll put ya on watch n’ watch protection, fully armed.”

Tim whined; that would be a royal nuisance. He really didn’t want to be followed around by two fully armed and armored SEALs. He knew they’d actually do exactly that. “Okay, okay. All right, I give. But ... how long do we have to do this?”

Tony barked, “Until we catch this jackwad. Deal, damn it.”

Tim flushed at Tony’s harsh tone. Tony sighed, ran a hand over his face then said, softly, “Aw, hell, Probie, just ... I’m sorry. Not gonna have another Kate on my hands.”

Tim sagged a bit, shoulders slumping, “It’s okay. I shouldn’t be arguing about it.”

Gibbs expected someone to ask about Kate but, from their expressions, it was obvious that Tony had told them about Kate and her assassination by Ari Haswari when it had happened.

 

It was late afternoon when the boxes came from Tim’s publisher. They were delivered by one of those bright young things that usually wind up perennial assistants. Tony flirted with her in a rather absent-minded way until Gibbs swatted him on the shoulder. “Pay attention.”

“I am, Jet. Just habit. Workin’ on it.”

Sophia sighed. She liked the look of Mr. DiNozzo, but he wasn’t really paying her any attention. His flattery was of the ‘I’m being nice’ variety instead of the ‘I want to date you’ kind, and he was more distracted than not. “Well, Mr. DiNozzo. If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you find it?”

Tony eyed the sophisticated suit, power pumps, and polished makeup and decided she wasn’t going to be much help, but told her, “We’re looking for viable threats to Special Agent McGee. And please address me as either special agent or Lieutenant Commander. I’ve earned both titles, and Mr. is my sperm donor.” 

“Oh. I see.” It was obvious from her expression that she didn’t, but she offered. “If you have parameters, I can do a search on our database. We enter all this sort of thing into a special file and run it through an FBI threat assessment program. Anything that ‘dings’ is sent to the police, and we keep a copy in a special file.” She pulled out a tablet. “And anything ... oh ... ick!”

Gibbs pounced on that. “Ick? What brought that on.”

She frowned at her tablet for a moment. “It seems that there are a few ... um ... individuals that send ... inappropriate garments to Thom E. Gemcity. Totally inappropriate. We do not send them on.” She made a face. 

Tony blinked, “Like unmentionables?”

“Yes ... worn. Thus ... ick.” 

Remy, Dean, and Cosmo, who’d been sorting through boxes all gave her wide-eyed looks, then cracked up completely.

Tim flushed deeply and turned to his computer. “I need a password to get into your database.” Sophia looked like she was going to refuse, so Tim continued, “I could just hack it, but I’d rather use a password.”

Sophia gave him hers and said, “I don’t think you could actually hack us.”

Gibbs snorted. “Ya think? He can hack just about anything.”

Tony nodded. “And if he can’t, I know people who can for sure. But they’ll fuck you up just for spite. They like him.”

Sophia meeped and said, “I’ll tell my boss.”

“Ooo, so scared.” Remy snickered.

Cosmo offered, “Do tell ... your boss, I mean. See ... we really only care about Tim. Your data base can go fuck itself sideways.”

Dean didn’t bother to comment; he was too busy sorting through a box full of odd junk. “What the hell?” he eyed what could only be a Bible turned into some sort of stiff sculpture. He put that aside, only to be confronted with a marriage certificate that said Tim was married to the Pope. He shook his head. “My God, what a bunch of dumbass nutjobs. Seriously?”

Tim began his search so they could compare their own findings with those of the publishing house. He also sent a request to the DCPD for their input. Remy, Cosmo, and Gibbs each took a box and started to work. Tony went down to talk to Ducky and Jimmy about a profile. 

By the time they were done, they’d eliminated most of the people who had sent Tim letters or emails. Ninety-five percent were just a bit nuts and had only sent one letter. Of the other five percent, it was equally divided between Bible-banging nutjobs who thought he was going to hell and wanted him to repent—of what, they weren’t telling. The other group were sending out-and-out threats, for different reasons.

Anything that was an original went to Abby for her fine touch.

It was late when Gibbs got the fax from DCPD telling him that all those letters had been shredded. He nearly had apoplexy.

“What the fuckin’ hell are they thinkin’? It’s in the database so we don’t need hard copy? How the hell can it be in evidence if they’ve shredded it? Jesus Christ on a cracker. DiNozzo, go.” Gibbs snatched up his phone and called a contact in the department.

Tony just grabbed his gear and left; when Gibbs was mad enough to last-name him, that was bad. He was also pissed; why anyone would destroy the originals of threat letters escaped him completely.

Gibbs wasn’t as clueless about politics as he seemed; he just didn’t have the patience. Now, he used CoC to bump his complaint up to Vance and let him handle whatever idiot had decided that all original letters could be shredded.

Leon Vance gave Gibbs a fish eye and snarled, “You better be shittin’ me.”

“Not.” Gibbs fish-eyed right back. “Call ‘em. Ask ‘em who the hell decided that particular bit of brick-headed stupidity. ”

“I will. You be ready to explain to me why I’m just now finding out about this particular cluster-fuck.” Vance hated being out of the loop on anything, but out of the loop on his MCRT? As Tony would say, big ol’ no.

“I was going to present you with a report this afternoon. As soon as we had something solid to show. Now ... all I’ve got is a bunch of copies of nut-case letters and emails sent to the publishing house. All we got that’s real evidence is two letters left on Tim’s desk and one possible left in my truck. The fire letter that wasn’t supposed to go off until Tim read it, and some vague threats. We’re still trying to decide whether this person is a ‘person of interest’ or just your garden-variety stalkerish, fruitcake fan.” Gibbs glared out the window.

Vance handed Gibbs a cup of coffee, then said, “Jethro, have Ducky do a profile as soon as you have enough information. Set Ms. Sciuto to analyzing what we have. I know you’ve already thought four steps ahead of me, but this way I can tell SecNav that I’ve set things in motion. But what the hell is the motive?”

“No idea. Someone he helped send up, someone in the Internet underground that has a grudge for some reason. There’s also psycho fans who want him to write his stories their way and take exception when he doesn’t. Others who think he’s in love with them and just shy. Still others who love him and are furious that he pretends he doesn’t know they exist, never mind that he actually doesn’t. You come up with a few.” Gibbs sipped the coffee and realized that he had a headache building behind his eyes. “Fuck.”

“I don’t want him ...” Vance shrugged at Gibbs glare. “Okay, okay. I know you’ve probably got all the bases covered. I’m just glad he’s living at ... Mallard Manor?” At Gibbs' nod he continued, “Security will be easier to manage than it would with him living in an apartment building, especially one with no security of its own.”

Gibbs eyed his empty mug, then the coffee pot, rather pointedly, so Vance got up and gave him a refill. After a sip Gibbs went on, “If AJ and the others have to go on a mission, I’ll move in with Ducky, Tim, and Jimmy until they get back. I want his car gone over with a fine-tooth comb; look for trackers, bugs ...” he waved a hand. “Anything.”

Vance nodded. “Everyone’s vehicle. Had a case where the bug was in a CO’s ruck. See to it.” 

Gibbs nodded and left. He pulled his phone from a pocket and dialed. “Gibbs. I need a team to go over everyone’s car, truck, or whatever, and their personal rucks. The team truck and car and all the desks. Look for bugs.” He listened for a moment. “McGee’s got a stalker. Not sure what the jackoff wants ... yet.”

He listened for a few minutes, then said, “No; I want to know who planted anything you find, so send it all to Abby. No smashing anything.” He hung up with a muttered, “Those jackwads watch way too much James Bond. Idiots.” He returned to his desk.

Tim was scowling at his monitor when Gibbs looked up from getting settled. “McGee?”

“Well, just fuck this shit. I swear ... really fuckin’ nice.” Gibbs eyed him, waiting for him to calm down. “No, do not give me the fisheye. My publisher turned all the letters that they thought were threatening over to DCPD. But they shredded the rest. What we’ve got here arrived in the last month. Now we need to look them over, and we can’t even get copies.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m so pissed I could ... shooting’s too good for them. There has to be some hell or other for idiots and fools. I told Melanie to tell their mail room to send every single thing that isn’t just fan mail here from now on.”

Gibbs just rubbed his face with one hand. “I swear, stupidity must be catching. DCPD shredded everything they had. I sent DiNozzo over to give someone an ass-chewing. I don’t dare go myself; I’d shoot someone.”

Tim sighed softly. “Boss, I’m sorry. This is...” he flinched as Gibbs gave him a smack in the head. “Ow.”

“It. Is. Not. Your. Fault. Some jackwad has decided that you aren’t paying her, or him, enough attention for whatever reason. It’s all on them. We just have to figure out who they are and what they want, specifically. So ... have you found anything?” Gibbs settled behind his desk.

“No. Any evidence we need is either destroyed or corrupted. I don’t understand what part of ‘digital doesn’t equal evidence’ these idiots don’t understand. How the hell are we supposed to present evidence if we don’t have it? A printout of a digital file is not evidence. Damn it!” Tim sent a memo to evidence with a reminder of exactly that, appending the comment, “I know you don’t need this, but it’s CYA.” 

 

Meanwhile, at the Sixth District Central Headquarters, Tony was beginning to lose his patience. “Look, I know you don’t know anything about this; I just need to speak to someone in your IT department.” Tony glowered at the desk sergeant, well aware that he was stalling for some reason.

The desk sergeant sighed, rubbed his face, then said, “Okay, the Captain doesn’t like Feds at the best of times, and he’s really pissed right now. Something about evidence being destroyed. No idea. I’ll call again. Have a seat.”

Tony decided to loom instead. “I’ll just stand here.”

“Fine. Whatever.” The sergeant went back to his work, grumbling under his breath.

Tony stood stock still, watching the sergeant like the sniper he was, until the man was sweating and squirming. It didn’t help that this was one of the days that Tony had chosen to wear his blacks with ribbon rack. He’d been expecting to be called down to Yorktown or to MTAC for an interview; instead, he was standing in the Sixth District HQ waiting to find out why some... he took a deep breath and searched for calm; it wouldn’t do to punch out some bean-counter the second he met him. Finally the sergeant called someone and said, “If you don’t come down and get him, I’ll bring him up. I’m tired of cock-blocking for you.”

Three minutes later, some junior officer came to get Tony. He took one look at the 6’2”, 215 pounds of broad-shouldered, deep-chested, pissed-off SEAL and nearly cried. “I’m sorry you had to wait, sir. If I’d known ...”

Tony eyed the man, then barked, “Not your fault. You’re small potatoes. Show me to your evidence department supervisor. Now.” Tony eyed the scared kid for a second then snarled, “Can we move it some time this century?”

The man scurried ahead of Tony, calling over his shoulder, “This way, please.”

He led Tony down two flights of stairs and into a rather large open room. “Here we are, sir.”

Tony eyed the room. It was filled with desks occupied by busily typing people who seemed oblivious to everything around them. Finally, Tony had had enough. “Okay, people! Front and center! Now! Where the fuck is the boss of this circus?” 

Three men took one look at Tony and snapped to attention. “Sir!” 

Tony eyeballed them in obvious displeasure. “Who the hell are you?”

The one who seemed to be most senior replied, “Seaman Edward Hand, sir.” He paused, but when Tony raised an eyebrow, he continued, “And on my right is Seaman Jack Rand, and behind me, Seaman Pete March.”

“Duty station?” Tony wondered what these men were doing here, if they were Navy.

“We’re reservists, sir.” Seaman Hand was beginning to sweat.

“As you were, gentlemen.” Tony looked them over then said, “Hand, with me. The rest of you, back to work.”

Seaman Hand did not look happy about Tony’s “request,” but he obediently trotted ahead of Tony when requested to show him to the boss’s office. He then beat a hasty retreat and returned to his desk, immediately announcing, “I’m going on break; do not expect me back on time.”

One of his co-workers said, “Okay, but you’re gonna get flack.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to be anywhere around when a pissed-off LtCmdr from Team Six goes off. I’d rather handle hot nitro.” And with that he grabbed his wallet and left, followed by the other two reservists.

Tony, willing to give almost anyone the benefit of the doubt, knocked on the door frame. “Hello.”

“Sit.” The man didn’t even look up from his monitor.

“Don’t think so. You got time, I got problems. We need to deal.” Tony eyed the man with some disfavor. It was courteous to at least look up at your guest.

“I said, sit.” Again the man didn’t look up.

Tony eyed the thin haired, hunch-shouldered man for a moment, then barked, “I’m talking to you, and I expect your full attention! Stand up! Look at me!”

The head of the evidence department jumped as if someone had stabbed him in the butt. “What? Who? Excuse me?”

“I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but now ... I’m not so sure. I want to know who the fuck ordered evidentiary documents to be shredded. And I want them here ... now. Go.” Tony gave the man a look usually referred to as bitch-face and waited.

“Now see here...” 

Tony glanced at the name tag on the desk. “No ... you see here, Mr. Pedderson. It seems that someone, here, has shredded evidence for some unknown reason. I’m here to find out who, why, and how much trouble I can get them in. You either help or get out of the way. Unless it was you. In which case, I’m takin’ you back to NCIS an’ fryin’ you like an egg. So ... speak.” 

Mr. Pedderson was a pedantic, hide-bound, bean counter of the worst sort, but he wasn’t an idiot. He realized that he had, somehow, created a mess. “I’m not sure what the problem is. We’ve got digital copies of everything right here in our database.”

Tony rolled his eyes then snarled, “So, you’ve got copies of everything, but the actual evidence is shredded? In what world is that going to work?”

“The information is easily retrievable. Just print it out.” Pedderson was still not getting the problem.

“Ok, print out the invisible fingerprints that we need. Print out the fibers that are stuck to the envelope. Print out the chemicals that permeate the papers. Print out the type of glue on the cut-out letters.” Tony was getting loud and Pedderson was beginning to get the idea that he, Tony, was not happy. “If you’re the jackhole who authorized shredding evidence, I’ll have your job. Then your head.” Tony calmed himself with visible effort then continued, “I want to speak to your boss, whoever he is.”

Pedderson gulped, reached for his phone and dialed. “Captain Jenkins. Pedderson in Evidence. I need you down here. I’ve got ... someone ... Navy. I don’t know.” He listened, obviously interrupted then replied, “I think you should come down here. He seems to be ... irritated.” He listened again then hung up. “The District Commander will be down in a few moments. Would you like something to drink? Perhaps some tea?”

Tony snorted. “Tea? Don’t think so. Coffee. Black.” Anyone who knew Tony would be looking for cover; Tony only drank black coffee when he felt like he was in enemy territory. He motioned for Pedderson to go get the coffee, then settled into the only chair on that side of the desk. 

Pedderson was still gone when Captain Jenkins arrived. He showed up with coffee and a chagrined expression. He handed Tony the coffee, eyed his rack, then sighed, “Ok, what’s going on?”

By the time Tony was through speaking, Captain Jenkins was livid. “Well, fuck me with a torpedo. What the hell was someone thinking? I’ll get to the bottom of this fast. Come up to my office and help me intimidate a few people.”

Tony almost balked at being dragged to yet another office. He’d already been from the front desk to a detective's office, back to the front desk, then down here to Data Processing/Electronic Evidence; now they wanted him to go to another office. The expression on the Captain’s face changed his mind.

“Okay. I’ll come. But I’m not promising anything else.” Tony sipped the coffee, then eyed the cup. It was typical PD sludge and nearly undrinkable. He surreptitiously dropped the cup into a trash can. 

They got to the office, and Captain Jenkins went to pick up a file. “Please tell me this is wrong.” He handed the file to Tony.

Tony opened the file and read the summary. “Nope. Right on the spot. And that’s why I’m here. We’re investigating a threat to a Federal Agent. We need all the letters that were sent here by Random House Publishing Re: Thom E. Gemcity. We’re doing a threat assessment.”

“So that guy is really a Fed? Wow. And ... damn. All documents in any stalker case were scanned into our system, then shredded. I’m still trying to find out who the fuck authorized that, because I sure didn’t, and nothing like that should have been done without my direct say-so.” Jenkins looked as if he wanted to say more, but he pressed his lips together, swallowing his words. He took a deep breath. “I’m waiting on the Evidence Department head to come up.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, tapping the folder on his knee. “All I want to know is how we’re going to recover from this mess. I need the originals as evidence. No prosecutor worth the name is going to do anything from printouts of letters. Email, Facebook, Twitter; maybe.” He banged his head against the wall with a dull thud. “Fuck.”

Captain Jenkins agreed. “Yeah. And you think it’s bad on your end. I just found out about this cluster-fuck. The Prosecutor is gonna have my head on a plate. I’m really hoping to save my ass by finding out how the hell this happened and ...” He made a face. “Guess there’s no fixin’ it.”

Tony shook his head. “Nope, no fixin’ this. Whatever evidence there was is gone.”

The Captain looked disgusted, then sighed, “Okay. So we move on. I need to find out who decided this was a good idea and why. What do you need?” He cleared his throat. “Other than things we don’t have.”

“Printouts of all the documents pertaining to NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee, A.K.A. Thom E. Gemcity. And five minutes in a gym with the dickwad that shredded the originals.”

“Well, I can get you the printouts. But ... five seconds on the mats with you and whoever it is will be dead.” The Captain shrugged. “Sorry. No death on my watch.”

Tony smirked at him and returned to his file. He was just finishing when there was a sharp knock on the door. Whoever it was didn’t wait to be told to enter, they just banged the door open and charged in.

Captain Jenkins just barked, “Did I say enter? I don’t remember saying enter. You knock and wait. I don’t give a damn what kind of paper you’ve got from where, you knock and wait.”

The woman who’d entered so rudely cleared her throat then said, “Look. I’m sorry about that but I’ve been on the phone with the Commissioner and he was ... just furious. I don’t understand what the problem is. It’s all digitized and available for review at any time.”

Captain Jenkins just shook his head. “You do realize that you’ve compromised hundreds of cases. The Prosecution is going to crucify us. They want the actual paper copy, not a printout.” The woman started to say something but the Captain went on to explain the rules of evidence in detail, loudly. He finished up by saying, ‘Now tell me it wasn’t your damn idea to destroy evidence.”

The woman sighed. “It wasn’t, but I didn’t see any reason to keep hard copies of paper when you can see the data electronically. Fingerprints and fibers and all that sort of thing are recorded and linked in the database. So ... but ...” she frowned as she tried to explain why she didn’t see the sense in keeping such things.

Tony helped Captain Jenkins out. “It doesn’t make any difference if you understand it or not. It’s the law. Evidence, original evidence, has to be made available to both parties. They have to be able to verify the findings. You can’t do that from a printout. So, we’ve gone past SNAFU, well into TARFUN, and on our way to FUBAR. Fuck.” He stood up, making the woman squeak, and announced. “I came to retrieve hard copy of everything I mentioned. But it’s gone. We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. If you don’t stop shredding procedures at once, I’ll have words with the Public Defender's Office, and the District Attorney as well.” He didn’t raise his voice, but he made it plain that he wasn’t best pleased, and that displeasure was liable to slop all over someone ― soon.

Miss Adams cleared her throat, then said, “I don’t think you realize how much paperwork there is...”

Tony eyed her in a manner that had made hardened chief petty officers cringe. “I don’t fucking care. I am an NCIS special agent. You want to talk about paperwork?” He obviously controlled himself. “But that’s neither here nor there in this cluster-fuck.”

Miss Adams blinked for a moment, then asked, “If you’re a special agent, why are you wearing uniform?”

“Because I’m also a SEAL. Now, I really don’t care why some bean-counter decided that it wasn’t important to keep the actual evidence; I just need copies of what you HAD, so I can get out of this insane asylum before you screw the pooch any worse than you already have.” He turned to Captain Jenkins. “This bunch of oxygen thieves ...” he shook his head. “I’d call in a Predator, paint the whole lot of ‘em, and light ‘em all up.” He eyed both people, then, when no one moved, barked, “Well? Someone get me that intel! And you!” he turned to Miss Adams. “Get outta my damn face. Seriously, you qualify for extinction.”

Miss Adams meeped, but stood staring at Tony, transfixed. 

“Well? Snap to! Move it. Get my damn paper, or sent a fax, or an email. Just go!” He glowered down at the woman, wondering what he had to do to get her moving. 

Before he could do anything else, she jerked, then scrambled to reach the door, exclaiming, “I’ll send Agent McGee an email; I’ve got his addy. Excuse me. And I’ll make sure that no one shreds anything else without making sure to get permission first. Excuse me. I’m going. Excuse me.” She scrambled out the door, slamming it behind her.

Tony eyed the closed door for a moment then snarled, “POGs. I swear. What a NUB. REMF doesn’t begin to describe it. You’re writin’ her a GOMAR, right? You are so UFO it’s not funny. You do know that, right?” He turned to see Captain Jenkins eyeing him. “What?”

Jenkins just said, “SEAL? And what the hell are you doing at NCIS, chasin’ jerkwater psychos?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m double Type-A personality. If I don’t keep busy between ops, I usually manage to over-train and hurt myself. So I keep busy there. Besides, I like it. Now I’m Oscar Mike, make sure I’ve got whatever you’ve got left before close of business today.”

Captain Jenkins sighed. “You got it. And I’m really sorry about this whole mess. I’ll keep you informed.”

Tony eyed him for a moment then said, “Don’t bother. If you need to talk to someone, call Vance. He’s in a mood. I’m gone.” And with that, he walked out the door and out of Captain Jenkins' life, leaving behind a very unhappy man, who made sure that Miss Adams was unhappy, and she made sure that Mr. Pedderson was cleaning out his desk by the end of business that day. Then both the District Attorney’s Office and the Public Defender’s office got hold of him, and her.

Tony sat in his Humvee for a few moments, then drove back to NCIS. He couldn’t believe that their investigation had been set back so badly. He seriously wanted to shoot someone.

.

[Chapter 2]

Leon Vance glared at his phone as if it had grievously offended him, which, in a way, it had. He was speaking to the Police Commissioner, the man in charge of DCPD, who claimed that he didn’t know anything about someone authorizing what was now being called ‘shred-gate’. 

“I don’t care what they thought. I don’t care who’s responsible. Done is done and can’t be changed. I just want whoever fired, blackballed, and off the force. Make sure that everyone from the department head to the janitor knows that paper evidence is evidence and is to be treated as such. Recorded, documented and preserved.” He smirked at the phone. “If you like, I’ll send one of my experts down to retrain everyone from top to bottom. Although you won’t like dealing with Dr. Sciuto in a snit.” He hung up, then rubbed his face with both hands. “What a mess.”

He settled down to read reports and deal with foreign affairs until someone could explain the latest insanity. He wondered where he’d gotten the idea that a totally electronic department was a good idea. His little talk with Tony about balance had opened his eyes. He was still restructuring teams and finding that the solve rate of the agency had risen by .05 percent. This didn’t sound like much but, agency wide, it was nearly one hundred cases more a month that were solved. Granted not all were murders, but they were all important to someone.

He looked up at the sharp knock on his door. Only a few people were privileged just to knock; Cynthia announced the rest. “Enter.” Jethro Gibbs was one of those people and now entered the room, bearing coffee.

“Here. I swear, I’d think you’d get some decent grind in here.” Gibbs handed over a cup of his favorite sludge. “So, now what?”

“I’m not sure. Thanks for the coffee.” Vance took a sip. “I tried to get some of my own coffee in, but it kept disappearing. Got expensive quick. So ... crap, unless someone brings me something fit to drink.” He took another sip. “As to what next? We keep Tim under casual surveillance until we either catch this nutjob or figure out it’s just some over-the-top fan blowing smoke.”

Gibbs agreed. “Yeah. That’s not going to be as much of a problem as you might think. He lives with Tony and Jimmy. The rest of us are in and out all the time. His publishing house is sending everything to us now, electronic or otherwise. Abby’s having a cow. I think she actually is planning on doing something really nasty to that Pedderson guy. What? I don’t want to know. That woman is seriously scary when she’s pissed.” Gibbs took a sip of his coffee, then sighed. “I also know that Tim is pissed. He’s a really easygoing sort, until you light his fire; then ... well, I’d rather be in another time zone.”

Vance gave Gibbs a disbelieving look. “He’s such a quiet sort.”

Gibbs grimaced. “Man, the louder they are, the less they’ll do. The quiet ones will have you waking up in hell wondering what the fuck happened. Tim’s quite capable of messing someone up bad. The only ones in the Pod he hasn’t whipped are me, AJ, and Remy. Me because I’ve got a PD on him, AJ because ... well, AJ’s just a BAMF; I’ve drawn with him more often than not. Remy’s just so damn big Tim can’t get leverage on him. So ... I’m not that worried about a physical attack; I’m more worried about IED’s or drugs.” He paused for more coffee. “And you would not believe the shit people send him. Weird.”

Vance, who’d taken a look at the inventory, shook his head. “I read the inventory. Hell, if my daughter sent some of that stuff to someone, I’d ground her until ... eternity. Although, I think she’s got better sense.” He mentally added, ‘I hope.’

Gibbs eyed his now-empty cup for a moment, then said, “I’m wondering if we have a real problem, or two or three small problems adding up to something that looks worse than it is. That was why I was wanting Abby to go over all the letters herself. This text-speak shit has me going in circles. I don’t understand half of it. What the hell is lol, anyway?”

Vance sighed. “I really think the best thing to do is have someone translate everything into real English, then send it to the Psych boys for a once-over.”

“Well, I hope Cryptology has better luck than I did.” Gibbs stood up. “I’m goin’ for coffee.” With that he left, shutting the door quietly on his way out.

Vance decided it was a good thing that Gibbs hadn’t waited long enough for him to say, “Cryptology, my ass; I’m just sendin’ it to the youngest secretary we’ve got.” He wondered if Gibbs would have slammed the door out of its frame or just burst something.

.

Shelly Evens was 20 years old and just out of secretarial school. She was so happy to get a job at NCIS. Her aunt and mother both worked here and it was on their recommendation that she’d gotten the job. They both told her it was up to her to keep it. So she was both excited and a bit scared when Director Vance himself had set her up in a tiny broom closet of an office and told her that she was to transcribe a lot of email and text and Twitter messages into what he called real English. 

She’d nearly passed out when she found that they were all to Thom E. Gemcity. She’d nearly thrown up when she’d started to read them. As she translated “lol” into “laughing out loud” and “wtf” to “what the fuck?” she realized that some of these messages were just stupid, while others were truly frightening. She bit her lip, then took her courage in both hands and searched Instagram and several other sites for more. It was dismaying that so many rang an ‘oh, shit’ bell. She called her supervisor and asked him to come to her tiny office for a consultation.

“Well, Miss Evens, what has you so flustered?” Mr. Tims was a genial man who genuinely enjoyed his work as the supervisor of the secretarial pool. He didn’t allow his ‘ladies’ to be abused, and God forbid that you called them ‘females’ or ‘girls’. No one but the newest, rawest agent, or the dumbest, stepped over his line.

Shelly took a breath then began her explanation; when she was finished she looked up and said, “So, I’m not sure what to do. This is ... some of it is just stupid; the sort of stuff you’d expect from hormonal teenagers of either sex, but the rest? Frankly, I’m worried. It’s psycho at its worst. Is this agent really going to be safe?”

Mr Tims looked at a few of the pages in his hands then said, “Don’t worry about this. You did a fine job, even going so far as to find the newest threats. We’re to turn it all over to Human Resources for a thorough Psych Eval. They’re profiling the perp, as the agents would say. If you come across any more, just send it on. Also, I don’t think you should look for more yourself without official permission from someone higher up. Run down to Forensics and speak with Miss Sciuto. And do not let her run over you or scare you. She’s just the sweetest thing, she just doesn’t like strangers in her lab much.” He handed the pages back. “Now, you bind that up nicely and take it to ... Dr. Oberg, I think. Ask at the front office in HR. Then go speak to Abby.” He got up and left, leaving Shelly to finish the job.

Shelly bound up all the pages in three neat ring binders with tabs and notations, then took it to HR. The receptionist pointed to the proper door, but said the Doctor was out now, so Shelly just put them right in the middle of the blotter with a note on them, then headed for Abby’s lab. The doctor came in half an hour later, took the binders and shoved them into his book case without looking at them, grumbling about secretaries who didn’t do their jobs. It would be a week before he realized where the letters he was supposed to analyze had gone.

.

Tim eyed his car with some disfavor. It was in the process of being searched for bugs. He was expecting the technicians to take it apart, as they were circling it like vultures over a juicy kill. 

He was surprised to hear, “Okay, people. First, this is a very expensive car. Second, it belongs to Special Agent McGee, not some scumbag shit bum, so treat it like it’s yours. We’re going over it to look for bugs, so let's get going.”

Tim stood and watched as the techs began to go over the car. They ran sensors over it, looked under it with mirrors, then opened the engine compartment, doors, glovebox, and trunk. He waited for them to begin pulling out the carpeting or take off the door panels. Instead, they ran the sensors over everything again, and used the mirrors to check under the dashboard. The only thing they took out was the floor mats. 

It took them over an hour, with Tim watching all the way. The team supervisor finally walked over to Tim to tell him, “Not a damn thing. No fingerprints that we can’t ID, no bugs, odd wires, nothing. That’s good, I guess, but no clues. So ...” he dangled the keys in front of Tim. “Here’s your keys. Park it somewhere safe, okay?”

Tim took the keys and nodded. “I will. Ducky’s gotten a shed built behind his place, room for all our babies.” He grinned. “Have you seen his Morgan? That’s one beautiful piece of machinery.”

The tech grinned back. “Yeah. That’s next on our list, then Gibbs’ SUV, and DiNozzo’s Hummer. Stretch even. Wonder what sort of hiding places that has?”

Tim thought for a second then admitted, “Not sure. But be really careful with it ... um ... and Gibbs' SUV. Both Jet and AJ are a bit nuts, no telling what kind of ammo or explosives they’ve got.”

The tech shuddered. “I’ve already gone through rucks. SEALs are nuts. Gibbs is too. There was one other ruck that was just nuts.” He eyed Tim. “You. I swear, I never saw so much electronic shit in my life. And Palmer carries a hospital. Crazy.”

Tim just shrugged, pocketed his keys and left to let the tech team finish their job.

As this included searching Tony’s Hummer, Remy’s SUV, Ducky’s Morgan, Dean’s Silverado, Jimmy’s S250, Cosmo’s Jeep, and Gibbs’ Ram, not to mention Abby’s Ford Coupe hotrod, they had a busy day. And a rather fearful one; they discovered no bugs, but Tony, Remy, Dean, and Gibbs had C-4 and ammo up the wazoo. One of the techs announced, “I’m never searching their anything ever. No.”

They all snickered and joked as they turned the keys over to Abby to return to everyone. 

Abby took them and thanked the techs for doing such a quick job. She trotted off to return keys. Lucky for Shelly, she stopped by her lab first.

.

Shelly stood just inside the lab door. She wasn’t sure exactly what to do, as Abby wasn’t in the lab. Should she wait? Or leave a note? Or just go back to her tiny office and call down? She regretted her office a bit; she was sure to be sent back to the pool—not that there was anything wrong with the pool, but having her own office was a cachet she was sorry to lose. She was still dithering when Abby got back.

“Oh, hello. You are?” Abby wasn’t as obsessive about strangers in her lab as everyone thought. She just didn’t like agents in there alone, as they tended to fiddle with everything in sight and messed up test results, her babies, you name it.

“Shelly Evans, ma’am. I brought this down. I also ... um ... Made another database. In real English. I was thinking that maybe it would be helpful?” Shelly eyed Abby then realized that Abby was just looking at her. “Something?”

Abby frowned. “You look familiar. But ... I’m sorry, I don’t remember where from.”

Shelly frowned. She was sure that she would recognize Abby if she’d ever seen her before. “Sorry. I don’t recognize you. I’m sure I’d remember you. No offense.”

“None taken. I am a bit ... different. so ... never mind that. Database ... what do you have?” Abby took the DVD and ring binder. 

Shelly explained about the translation and what she’d done, ending, “So, since it was all digital, I made a secondary file and translated that, then dumped it all into a spreadsheet sort of thing. It’s searchable by sender, key word/phrase, date, and anything else you might be able to think of and apply. I hope I did okay. I mean, I know HR is doing an eval but ... I just thought that you and ...” She waved a hand, “Someone on the investigating team might want it, too.”

Abby couldn’t help but hug her. “That is brilliant. Great job. I’ve got all sorts of filters I can run it through. Don’t know what I might find out, but anything’s better than what we’ve got at this stage. I’m sending a commendation to your supervisor. Now ...” Abby stuck the DVD into a drive. “I’m going to up-load everything and start ... doing a forensic analysis of the key words. You can take off if you like. But ...” Abby turned away from her computers. “Keep an ear out, okay? You’ve done a fine job of locating a lot more stuff ... Facebook, Instagram, what the hell else. Keep sending anything you find down with the memo TEG. Thanks.”

Shelly knew a dismissal when she heard it, but she wasn’t offended; she realized that Abby was just worried about her friend and co-worker. “Okay, I’ll keep sweeping for anything that looks ... um ... of interest to the investigation. I’ll email it to you with links. Bye.” She turned to go, grinning at Abby’s absent-minded, “Bye, y’all.”

Shelly returned to pack her office, but found a handwritten note from Director Vance telling her to run searches on several things and write a report for him or various other department heads. There were also a couple of emails asking her for info. She realized that her skills as an internet researcher had garnered her the tiny office and a pile of fascinating work. She dove in.

.

Tim snarled as he reviewed the cold case. Since he was under threat watch, they weren’t allowed out in the field until further notice. Vance had said the same thing Gibbs and AJ had: they didn’t want a repeat of the Todd incident, nor the Sciuto stalker thing. He also didn’t want a repeat, nor one of the Landon incident, where a psycho fan killed several people from Tim’s books and nearly got Abby. 

He tried to concentrate on his work, but he couldn’t; all he could do was worry about who was after him now, and why. So he was on edge, pissy and not in the mood.

This was when some knucklehead decided to pick on the geek. 

“Hey, McGeek, I need a search done.” The transfer agent tossed a half sheet of paper at McGee. “Get to it.”

Tim just balled the paper up and tossed it in the trash. “You want a search done, do it yourself. I’m busy.” He gave the agent bitchface and went back to work.

“Look, I’ve got real work to do and I don’t have time to argue with some tech geek. Just do your job,” the agent smirked at Tim like he’d made some major point.

Tim stood up, “You do yours, I’ll do mine. Mine does not include catering to some jacked-up jerk who doesn’t know how to start a simple search.” He walked in the direction of the head but a hand on his arm stopped him.

Remy moaned, “Oh man, you so did not.”

Tim looked down at the hand then up at the agent. “Excuse me.”

“Get back to your desk and get that search started.” 

Tim eyed him for a moment, noticing the plastic pass on a lanyard around his neck. He reached out and fingered it, then read, “Special Agent (probationary) Zachariah Mellon. NCIS NYC” Tim looked up again. “Well, Zachy. This is the way it is. I’m havin’ a really bad day. That makes me cranky. When I’m cranky, I’m not much for being touched, it makes me even more cranky. So ... you’ve got two choices; one, take your hand off me, apologize for existing and take off. Or two, meet me in the gym in half an hour and I’ll rip your head off for you. You’ve got two seconds.”

Gibbs loomed behind Agent Mellon. “There a problem here?” His tone said there’d better not be.

Agent Mellon pointed at Tim. “I need geek-boy to do a search and he’s just standin’ there.”

Gibbs eyed the agent then glanced at Tim; he mouthed ‘geek boy’ then shrugged. “Just don’t kill him.” 

Tim glanced around and realized that Dean, AJ, Jimmy, and Remy were standing nearby with various ‘deer in the headlights’ looks on their faces. “What!?” He glared at Mellon then snarled, “Well? I’m waiting.”

Mellon ignored the looks assuming, wrongly, that they were all worried about Tim. “I’ll meet you in twenty minutes. Have to let my team lead know where I am.”

Tim snorted and muttered, “Bet he’s not that worried.” He picked up his ruck and headed for the gym, Gibbs, et.al, in tow.

Word got around that Tim was going on the mats with some probie wannabe super agent, and the gym was crowded. The trainers had actually pulled out the collapsible risers that were used for the basketball games. They filled quickly as the rumor mill ground; everyone who could manage sneaked away from their desks to watch.

Tony helped Tim put on the MMA gloves all the Pod members favored over boxing gloves. “Okay, you wanna fuck ‘im up good an’ fast. Do not play with him. We don’t know how good he is.”

Tim eyed Tony for a moment then drawled, “Well, damn, AJ, I was hopin’ for a bit of stress relief. I’m about to jump out of my skin. That jackwad deserves to be played with.”

Tony cracked up, laughing loudly. “Okay, McSmackdown; I’m your corner man.”

Jimmy snorted. “No, dude, you are most certainly not. I’m a highly trained doctor with a speciality in Emergency Medicine, so I’m the corner man. Deal.” His snooty tone made the other two men snicker.

Tim went into the locker room and changed into NCIS regulation sweat pants and official t-shirt. He usually wore a gi now, but he didn’t have it with him today.

Tony followed him in. “Game plan?”

Tim shrugged, settling his shirt across his shoulders. “Don’t really have one, yet. Get a feel for the jerk, then mess him up. I’m really getting tired of being the ‘walk-on-him geek’. I don’t know how you kept up your mask for so long.”

Tony grinned, “Some days I’d go home and want to kill someone. Kate wasn’t so bad; she treated me just exactly like her brothers. You? Some days good, some bad. But Ziva could really yank my chain. Don’t know why, just could. So ... If he hurts you bad, I’m gonna mess him up good.” Tony slapped Tim on the shoulder and left to take up a place on one corner of the mats with Jimmy.

Tim joined them after a quick consultation with one of the trainers. They wanted to make sure that Tim wasn’t going to kill the guy. Although one did voice the opinion that the obnoxious jerk was getting what he deserved. It seemed that the man had made no friends in the office and several enemies. Even Abby hissed, “Tim, kick his ass,” as Tim walked by.

The senior trainer called Tim and Zac to the mat. “Ok, I want a good, clean fight. No biting, no eye gouging. Stay away from the kidneys and balls. MMA rules. When I say break, you fuckin’ break. When I send you to your corner, you damn well go.” He nodded to Tim and eyed Mellon sharply. “Mellon. Last time you were here there seemed to be some difficulty with your understanding. Not on my watch. Tim?” 

Tim nodded. “I got it.” Tim went to his corner and stood with Tony and Jimmy while the Senior Trainer spoke with Zac. 

He didn’t bother to keep his voice down so most of the gym heard. “I don’t want any dirty fighting. This is a clear-the-air match. Last time you had one of these, you hurt your opponent more than you should have. Not this time.”

Mellon just shrugged. “If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen. Can we get this show on the road?”

Oakley just nodded. “Your funeral. Places.” Tim came to the middle of the mat. “Shake hands.” Tim bumped fists with Mellon, who’d chosen boxing gloves, heavy ones. Tim sneered at him, displaying his bright blue mouthguard.

“Fight!” Oakley slashed his hand down between the two men and stepped out of the way.

Tim just stood and watched as Mellon went through a series of moves meant to scare him. He wasn’t impressed and just waited for Mellon to get serious.

That took a bit as Mellon feinted and dodged around, trying to find an opening in Tim’s defense. The observers took exception to this and began to chant, “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” Tim ignored them, but it pissed Mellon off, which made him stupid. 

Tim watched in disgust as Mellon let loose with a roundhouse swing that missed, just ruffling his hair. It didn’t hurt that Mellon telegraphed his punches; he might as well have shouted his intentions. Tim faded away from the punch, ducking slightly and turning a shoulder to protect his head. Another roundhouse, this time a feeble left, was treated the same way. 

After that bit of stupidity, Tim led the man around the mats by the nose, ducking his swings and backpedaling just enough that Mellon thought he had a chance of connecting.

Finally, after about ten minutes, Gibbs yelled, “Damn it, Digimon, stop playin’ with ‘im. There’s work to do.”

Tim just nodded once then returned his attention to the combat at hand. “Ok, Mellon, Jet just told me to wind this mess down. So.” He grabbed one flailing arm and tossed Mellon over his shoulder in a judo throw. Mellon hit the mat with a loud thump.

“You little ...” Mellon scrambled to his feet and took a poke at Tim. You couldn’t really call it a punch.

“Christ on a cracker. You punch like a ... I would say girl, but I know girls that punch better than that.” Tim grabbed Mellon’s wrist and threw him again. The crowd snickered as Dean and Cosmo solemnly held up sheets of paper with numbers written on them. 

Dean loudly announced, “I gave a 5 because there was good height, but the distance was lacking.”

Cosmo argued, just as loudly, “He deserves a 7. Style counts too, you know.”

Mellon nearly had an apoplectic fit when he heard that. “I’m gonna hurt you.”

Tim shrugged, keeping an eye on the man, then said, “Well, talk me to death or do something. Bring it.”

Mellon tried, but Tim was bored and ready to take a shower. When Mellon took another wild swing, Tim finished the fight. He simply stepped inside Mellon’s reach, grabbed his shoulders, kicked him in the back of the knee and, with a grunt of effort, flipped him as he fell, then knelt in the middle of his back. “Pin.”

“No! You can’t ... I’m not ...” Mellon didn’t get much farther in his rant as Tim wrapped one arm around his neck in a choke hold. He gave up, going limp and slapping the mat with one hand.

Tim stood up and stepped back, giving Mellon room to get up, and himself room if Mellon decided to be stupid.

Mellon got up, eyed Tim then stalked off without a word. Tim watched until he was in the locker room then shrugged. He jumped when a voice right in his ear hissed, “You wanna pull that shit with me?”

“AJ, damn it. What?” Tim knew he shouldn’t gloat but it felt good to put a jackwad like that in his place. Then he turned to look at Tony, who did not look pleased at all.

“Showin’ off ‘ll get you killed. Mats ... now.” Tony was royally pissed and showed it.

Remy mumbled, “Damn, AJ’s hacked.” He thought for a moment then said, “Don’t really blame him, in a way. On the other hand...” he shrugged. “Well, shit.”

Tony just dumped Tim on his ass. Tim knew he was in for a real fight, but he wasn’t going down easy. He knew that apologizing or making excuses wasn’t on, but he said, “I shouldn’t have played with him but ... it was fun. So.”

Tony snarled, “I told you not to mess around. You should have cold-cocked him at the least.”

Tim blinked at that. “Um ... okay?” He ducked under a grab and kicked Tony in the gut. Tony backpedaled a bit then unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches that kept Tim moving to block or avoid them. He managed to get inside Tony’s reach and grapple with him, which was a mistake he soon regretted as Tony nearly pinned him; only a rather frantic eel-like wiggle got him out of trouble. But he managed to throw Tony off and roll away. Instead of trying to escape, he turned and launched a kick at Tony’s head that connected with his shoulder instead. The dull thump echoed around the now-silent gym. Tony yelped but was on his feet and ready to fight in a second. Tim eyed him then said, “And you’re fucking around now, not me.”

Tony just backed away a bit, made a ‘bring it on’ motion with one hand and waited. Tim knew he was screwed, but he never gave up; someday he’d actually get Tony, just not today, and he knew it. He gave it the ol’ college try, punching and kicking; it was just ― Tony was better. 

Finally, Tony put Tim in a hug-choke hold that had him flat on his back, half in Tony’s lap, with no way out. He slapped Tony’s thigh to signal surrender. Tony let go and Tim got up. He turned and offered his hand to Tony to help him up.

Tony staggered as he got up and they wound up holding each other up. “Damn it, Digimon, you’re getting harder and harder to beat. Good work.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks ... I think. Shower?” Tim panted softly, he was exhausted. 

Tony was nearly as tired, and he hurt where Tim had kicked him. He nodded, “Yeah ... shower.”

The trainers chivvied the spectators out of the gym and back to work while the Pod retired to the showers; Tim and Tony actually to shower, the rest to hang around in the locker room and shout rude remarks at them. Remy actually hung out in the door to the showers and spent the ten minutes it took, critiquing the fight; in vivid and crude detail.

Tim finished first, due to not using conditioner, and elbowed Remy in the gut on his way to his locker. “Jerk.”

Remy’s indignant, French, “Je ne suis pas, vous êtes!” made every one laugh.

Tim opened his locker and froze. “Um ... we’ve got a problem.”

Gibbs was right behind him in a second. “What?”

Tim pointed. “I don’t wear white boxers, ever.” He pointed to the top shelf where he kept his underwear, aftershave, and deodorant. “And I don’t use that brand of cologne or deodorant.”

Gibbs eyed the bottles and garment for a moment then said, “Well, fuck. AJ? ... where the fuck is he?”

Dean nodded his head in the direction of the showers. “Conditioning. Whadaya need?”

“Evidence bags, gloves, seals.” Gibbs pointed in the general direction of his locker on the other side of the room. “Should be some in my ruck. And I’m callin’ Abs, so everyone get dressed.”

Dean got Gibbs’ ruck while Gibbs called Abby. While this was getting done, Tim got dressed; no one commented on the fact that he went commando and stole Dean’s A-TAC’s, not even Dean.

Abby clomped in, snarling, “Oh, grow up, you don’t have a thing I haven’t seen,” at some guy who protested her entry. She took the bag, gloves, and seals from Gibbs then said, “Okay, what’s going on?”

Tim pointed to the top shelf. “Have you ever known me to wear white cotton baggies? And you know damn good and well that I hate that particular scent. I’m also not wearin’ anything in that locker until it’s ... ever. After you’re through with it, burn it all.”

Abby blinked, then turned to give the contents of the locker a wide-eyed look. “Oh, my giddy Aunt Liddy. What the ... I’m on it.” Abby pulled on the gloves and carefully lifted the pants, shirt, t-shirt, tie, and socks out of the locker. She put each garment into a separate evidence bag which Gibbs held open for her. He sealed each bag, then handed it off to Dean, who noted what was in it, time of collection, etc. and then dropped it into the box at his feet. When she got to the boxers, she actually used an inside-out bag to pick them up. “Not even; I don’t like the look of these at all.” She also used that trick to pick up the deodorant and cologne bottles. “I don’t know who thought you’d ever use Brut. Really? Seriously? Only idiots and players wear that.”

Tim shook his head. “There’ve been several letters that suggested I should; maybe we need to give those particular letters a second look?”

Gibbs snorted. “Not gonna do us a damn bit a’ good. The originals were shredded, remember?”

Abby scowled at that reminder. “Yeah, I sent a letter to the Chief of DCPD and raked him over the coals. I also told him to forward as necessary. If I ever ... and I mean ever, get my hands on that guy, he’s toast. What we could have learned ... well, done is done. Just ...” her little scream of frustration made them all chuckle.

Remy patted her on the shoulder. “Do’an fuss. Do’an do no good. Just ... we’ll get more evidence. Dat sort never go ‘way.”

“Too true.” Abby eyed the locker. “Swab and fingerprint everything.” She picked up the box. “I’m going to get started. I expect you’ll have the rest of the stuff soon?”

Gibbs nodded absently as he began to swab the locker for trace. “I’ll do it myself.” 

It didn’t take long for word to get around that someone had tampered with Tim’s locker; this led to everyone wanting to come in and check their lockers. Gibbs put Dean and Cosmo on the door to tell them to come back when Tim’s locker was cleared and that anyone who thought their things had been tampered with was to inform Gibbs or their team lead. There was a bit of grumbling from the office personnel, but the agents all nodded their understanding and went away until later.

.

[Chapter 3]

Abby started her examination by spreading Tim’s jacket out on her table. She examined it carefully for stains, powder residue, and anything else she could think of. She didn’t find anything at first, but finally found a bit of white powder on one shoulder. She brushed it off into a petri dish after photographing and sketching the whole garment. She went on to the other pieces, giving them the same careful treatment. The shirt was clean, as was the tie; however, the socks, t-shirt, and boxers all had stains on them. She photographed and sketched, then cut out a postage-stamp-sized sample, which she dropped into individual containers filled with distilled water. She then carefully opened the cologne in her safe box, took a sample for the Mass Spec and resealed the bottle, put it back in the evidence bag, and resealed it. She did the same with the deodorant. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Director Vance said, “And exactly when were you going to inform me of this latest development?”

Abby eyed him for a moment then snarled, “Bell. I swear. As to informing you ... I assume that Gibbs was going to do that when we had something to actually tell you. Damn it.” This last was aimed at her mass spectrometer. “Mr. Director, sir, if you don’t get me a new mass spec ... well, I’m not nursemaiding this one much longer. The results are about to be compromised by calibration drift.” She patted the machine fondly. “I love Major Mass Spec but ... he’s old and wearing out. You do know that most machines are only expected to do around 250 tests in 16 hours, right? I do that every day ... in a 10 hour shift. It’s just too much for such an old machine.” She gave him her patented puppy-dog-eye, wibble-lip pout and hoped.

Vance pulled out his phone and checked something; he frowned, fiddled with his phone, then tucked it away. “Okay. I looked it up. That machine is up for replacement in the next fiscal year. I moved you up to next month. Happy?” He smiled.

Abby smiled back. “Ecstatic. I’ll miss Major, but it’s time he retired. Don’t tell me what will happen to him, I don’t want to know.”

Vance shrugged. “Fine. You don’t want to know that he’ll be going to a school to continue his work by training new students until he just won’t work anymore. I understand completely.” He smirked at Abby, who just snickered softly and went back to work.

It was only a few moments later that she sighed and snatched up her Caf-pow. “Well, there we are all queued up and waiting. It’ll be ...” she glanced at the clock on the wall. “three hours or so until I have results.”

Vance sighed. He knew that each test could take up to an hour, depending on things he didn’t understand and didn’t care about. “Okay, write everything up and get me a copy ASAP.

Abby nodded. “I’ll get it to both you and Gibbs as soon as I have something. I’ll email you. Okay?”

“Fine.” And with that the Director of NCIS knew he’d been dismissed. He took it in good-natured resignation and returned to his office to worry. Someone had gotten into the locker room in a rather heavily guarded and supposedly secure Federal building. He wasn’t happy.

.

Tim returned to his desk to check any security footage, but wasn’t too hopeful. Due to privacy concerns, there weren’t any cameras in the locker room, and finding out who had entered and left wasn’t much use. But he made the attempt anyway. Nothing worth the trouble.

Gibbs was questioning everyone he could think of, with Tony in tow. Dean and Cosmo seemed to be just hanging around Tim, but the one time some stranger tried to speak to him, they both just materialized nearby. Tim glanced up, “Just the mail guy.” The man handed Tim a letter, then scurried off. 

Tim examined the envelope, then snarled. It wasn’t vetted. “Not even. Bag?” Cosmo produced one from a thigh pocket, and Tim dropped the envelope in. “Abby, please.”

Cosmo handed the evidence bag off to Remy, who signed the evidence log Tim handed him, then took the clipboard and envelope off to Abby.

.

Gibbs eyed the Mail Room Supervisor and decided that he didn’t like the man much. “Things are getting through the screening process, and I want to know how. Special Agent McGee got yet another un-vetted envelope just now.”

Supervisor Grant frowned at Gibbs. “I’m sure that’s impossible. Everyone knows better than to deliver anything that isn’t stamped. I’ve told them myself.” He nodded once as if to say that was all that was needed.

Tony snorted, “So ... because you said, that means that no one is going to just deliver whatever they’re given rather than check each and every piece for the stamps? Pu-leaze.” he shook his head. “All I know is, Tim keeps getting weird mail and it’s coming from your department. There’s no other way for it to get into the building.”

“Well, I have no idea how ... if it’s even true at all. All my people know better.” His stuffy, self-satisfied, condescending attitude made both Tony and Gibbs grind their teeth.

Gibbs finally managed, “I don’t care what you say; tell ‘em again. And make sure they understand that I, personally, will make their short career hell. Got me?”

“Yes, I understand. I will send out a memo.” And with that, Supervisor Grant turned his back on them both and began to type. Gibbs started to say something until he realized that the man was actually typing up his memo right then.

“Come on, AJ, let’s get out of here and let the man work.” Gibbs nodded to the door then followed Tony out.

Tony shook his head. “What do ya wanna bet someone’s just picking up internal mail, mixing in their letter and passing it on? No one expects internal mail to be vetted.”

Gibbs thought about that as they walked. “I ... hope not. That means that our stalker is an employee ... with full access to most of the building.”

Tony sighed. “I know. Makes me really nervous. What the hell? Ya know?”

“I do.” Gibbs sat down and turned to his monitor. “McGee? You got anything?”

“Nope. Not a damn thing. No one in or out of the locker room that didn’t belong. Not even a shadow.” Tim eyed his computer as if it had personally offended him. “I didn’t expect anything, but you never know.”

Gibbs settled at his desk with a scowl on his face. “I want to talk to that turd that brought the last letter. Find him.” He didn’t bother to pick a body; he expected someone to go find his perp. Tony glanced at Dean, who nodded and stalked off to find the mail guy.

He returned about ten minutes later with the skinny, freckled twenty-something in tow, literally. The kid was sweating and tugging on the wrist Dean had hold of.

“I don’t know what you want with me. I didn’t do anything. Let go. I’m going to tell my supervisor.” He tugged again.

Dean had just locked his grip around the skinny wrist like a handcuff. He wasn’t letting go, and the kid couldn’t pull his hand through the circle of Dean’s fingers. But Dean was getting a bit pissed, as the kid wouldn’t give up.

“Look, Jet ... I mean, Supervisory Special Agent Gibbs wants to talk to you. You’ve got two choices: come peacefully, or get dragged, ‘cause I’m sure not carryin’ your skinny ass.” Dean planted the boy in front of Gibbs’ desk. “Here. Deal. Kid’s a walking GOMAR.” He let go of the wrist and stalked over to Tim’s desk to glower at the mail guy.

Gibbs eyed the boy, looked for a name tag/pass and didn’t find one. He barked, “Name?”

The boy quailed, “Um ... Tommy Wallace?”

Gibbs rolled his eyes while Dean and Tim both winced. “Is that a question or are you suffering from some sort of mental deficiency?”

“No. It’s just ... what’d I do?” The rather plaintive wail made the whole group roll their eyes.

“Oh, good Lord.” Gibbs pointed at Tommy. “One, where the fuckin’ hell is your tag? Two, where did you get that damn letter you delivered about two hours ago. And three, grow a pair.”

Tommy flinched, “I forgot it; I’m always doing that. I don’t understand why I have to wear a tag like a dog. Everyone knows who I am, and they don’t care about my name. I’m just ‘the mail guy,’” he made air quotes with his fingers. “As to that letter? It was in my cart, stuck down between the buckets. I found it when I started cleaning the cart. People are always tossing letters and shit in the general direction of a sorting container and leaving me to figure it out. So, I delivered it.” He sighed. “As to growing a pair. I can’t afford to lose this job and I’ve been written up twice for nothing. Mr. Grant can’t seem to make up his mind how he wants things done, but I’m always the goat, along with all the other messengers, when he changes his mind. Man doesn’t know what a memo is for. He always sends them after the fact. Now ... can I go? I need to make my next rounds.”

Gibbs eyed him for a moment then snarled, “Yes, you can go.”

Tommy took off, scampering for the stairs before Gibbs changed his mind.

Remy offered, “Okay, everyone an’ ‘is dog just tosses mail into the cart at will. Nemme min’ ‘at it’s against regs. Ev’ ting ...” he cleared his throat. “Everything is supposed to be sent to sorting, logged, vetted, then sent on. Lazy.”

Tim nodded. “Exactly. So someone is getting into the building and dropping mail onto the cart, and it’s getting delivered. What can we do about it?”

Gibbs settled back in his chair to think about that one. “No idea.” 

They all jumped a foot when Vance’s voice from the back of the stairwell to the mezzanine said, “I’m sending out a memo that any mail found dumped on the cart will be taken to the mail room, sequestered for 48 hours, then sent to be vetted. Anyone caught putting mail on the cart instead of sending it to the mail room for logging will be written up. Two write-ups for the same offense will result in retraining.” He scowled. “I’m tired of this sort of thing coming up again and again.”

Gibbs shrugged, then offered, “Lots of people do it; how are we gonna catch ‘em?”

The whole group thought about that for a while. Vance waited patiently; he wasn’t about to ignore advice from the best investigators in NCIS.

Tim offered, “If it doesn’t have a sender name, it gets opened and vetted. I’d bet they put a return on the inside.”

Dean shrugged. “Anything without a complete address gets you a write-up.”

Vance nodded. “I’ve been memo-ing about that for ages. Time to crack down. Nothing gets delivered office-to-office, everything goes through the mail room. Anything put on the cart had better be in the pick-up box. Write-ups are gonna fly like snow in a blizzard.” He rubbed his face. “Damn it.”

Remy advised, “Have the mail room take care of it. Mr what’s-‘is-name sends the list to each department head, they deal. Easy-peasy. Not in your job description to deal; waste of assets.”

Vance nodded. “You’re right ... I’ll send another fuckin’ memo. Damn it.”

Tony couldn’t help but smirk a bit. “That’s a lot of ‘damn it’s’ in a row there.”

Vance just gave him a heated look and climbed the stairs to the mezzanine and his office.

.

The rest of the day went as expected. The memo arrived on paper, and via email and a public announcement. There was no way anyone could have the excuse that “they didn’t know.” Mr. Grant was livid, but kept his mouth shut; any threat to an agent of NCIS was taken seriously. The fact that several threats had gotten through the vetting process made him look bad, something he took to heart. 

Agents complained about the “new” rules, despite the fact that they’d been in place since before Tony got Y. pestis from a nutjob bioterrorist. But they all complied; there were some things you just sucked it up and dealt with. This was one.

The mail room, on one hand, was ecstatic. They had been given plenty of heat over the years for misdelivered mail that couldn’t be traced, as the addressing was haphazard at best. Now, no one was putting anything in the cart for delivery, it all had to go into the pick-up box, or the out-tray on the sender's desk. And anything with a bad, half-done, or missing address, from: or to:, was to be opened, examined, and returned to sender or trashed. Mr. Grant rubbed his hands together in glee, literally. No more half-assed addresses that they were expected to figure out, no more unvetted mail that they got in trouble for delivering. He was actually a happy man. 

The mailroom, on the other hand, wasn’t best pleased. They knew that the whining and bitching was about to begin. It wouldn’t be the department heads and agents that flipped out; it would be the middle management types, the self-entitled bean-counters who thought they were more than they actually were. But, on the bright side, they’d get written up twice. 

.

After a trying day, Tim gathered his things to head home. “I’m done. Who’s takin’ first watch?” At the odd looks he got, he exclaimed, “Oh, please! I’m really sure you’re all gonna let me go off alone. So, who’s with me?”

Cosmo glanced around. “I think Jimmy’s takin’ first watch. He should be here.”

Jimmy popped out of the elevator just then. “Hey! Hi! Sorry; Dr. Mallard had instructions.” He grinned. 

Most people wouldn’t give Jimmy a second look; he was just self-effacing enough that his vibes were “not dangerous.” The facts were very different. He was, in fact, a BAMF of the first water. And he was armed. 

Tim tucked his sidearm into his belt, clipping the paddle holster to his belt. “Ok, let’s go. It’s my turn to cook, so I need to do some shopping.”

Jimmy grimaced. “Well, Ducky said he’d do that. He’s actually kinda lookin’ forward to it. We’re supposed to go straight home.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

Tim, who actively hated shopping, grinned. “Not a problem. Hate shopping for produce. We’ll get the rest of the prep work done and clean the kitchen. Don’t you have some laundry to do?”

“I do. So ...” Jimmy bowed, motioning with both hands to the elevator. “Your chariot awaits.”

Dean laughed. “Some damsel in distress. Seriously.”

Cosmo bopped Dean in the head. “Jackwad.”

“Gomer.” Dean poked Cosmo in the side, making him snort.

Cosmo took offense to this, saying, “Not a damn Jarhead. Jerk.”

They continued to squabble back and forth until Gibbs smacked both of them in the head and told them to “Belt up, damn it.”

Dean retreated to one side of the hall while Cosmo took the other. They stayed on either side of Gibbs, sulking slightly, until he sighed, then they both offered him a grin. “Idiots.”

“Yup, but ya love us.” Dean nodded once.

Cos wisely kept silent, but grinned a bit wider.

They headed for home in Remy’s SUV.

.

Ducky wandered up and down the aisles of the grocery store, enjoying his shopping. He knew that most of the others didn’t particularly enjoy shopping, impatient to get on to the ‘more important’ cooking. He, however, enjoyed looking at all the packages of foods, remembering his childhood in Scotland and the lack of choices. He’d never gone hungry, but there had been days when plain fare was all there was. So he liked just picking up things and looking at them.

As he ambled happily down one aisle, then up another, he was very careful to get everything on the list, as well as a few things just because. He did get two boxes of his favorite cookies, which he still called biscuits. Scottish Shortbread Fingers, imported from Scotland. He did love them. They weren’t as good as Tony’s homemade ones, but he didn’t like to impose.

A clerk noticed Ducky’s random wandering and stopped to ask, “Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Ducky smiled at the boy, all of 25 if he was a day. “No, thank you. I just like to browse now and then. That way I know what’s here when I’m in a hurry.”

“Okay; just wanted to make sure you were finding what you want. I couldn’t help notice your accent, so I just wanted to point out that we now have a rather extensive selection of British goods in Aisle 12.” The kid smiled and turned around, walking away with a wave over his shoulder.

Ducky murmured, “Lovely,” and went to have a look. He wound up getting several of his favorites. 

At the checkout he was asked again if he’d found everything he wanted, and the young lady seemed sincere. “Yes, thank you. Lovely section of UK items you have. I found a couple of old friends.” He smiled as he dragged his wallet out of his pocket.

Ami nodded at the elderly man with a friendly smile. “I’m so glad. There was a bit of grumbling when they put it in, but it’s been very popular. There are a lot of x-pats in town, and a fairly large group of Anglophiles, so we’re selling lots more than expected. Although ...” she laughed, brandishing a jar of Vegemite, “there’s no way I’d actually eat this stuff. Oh, my God, yuck.”

Ducky chuckled softly. “I do admit that it’s a bit of an acquired taste. Did you try the Marmit and Bovril as well?”

Ami made another face. “Yes, and they’re nasty too. But I did like the digestive biscuits. But why do you call cookies ‘biscuits’?”

Ducky glanced behind himself, saw that there was no one in line, then said, “Well, my dear ... it’s like this...” he was about to continue his explanation when there was a crash from a side aisle. 

Ami snarled, scurried to take a look then came back. “I’m so sorry, I’d love the explanation but someone dropped a jar of jam and I’ve got to go clean it up before she cuts herself. That’ll be ... $42.81 please.”

Ducky just swiped his card. “Thank you. I can get it. You hurry on and take care of that unfortunate mess.”

“Thanks, Mr. Mallard, I really appreciate your understanding.” Ami handed his register slip to him and hurried off.

Ducky put the last bag in his buggy himself and trundled off to his Morgan.

.

Tony met Ducky at his parking space to help him bring in the bags. “Damn, Duck, what the hell did you do? Looks like you bought out the store.”

“Just a few things I found in the UK aisle. Things I miss, you know?” Ducky took charge of the bags Tony had arranged. “I’ve got this. Bring in the rest?”

“Duck, I’ve got it.” Tony wasn’t sure it was a good idea for the older man to carry too much, but he didn’t want to insult the independent gentleman, either.

“Tut-tut, Anthony, don’t fuss. I’m only carrying two; you’ve got the rest.” He headed for the back door.

Tony ambled along beside Ducky grinning like a loon. “Duck-man, I hope you got everything on the list. Tim’s making his famous Hong-Kong Chicken.”

Ducky sighed. “And I’d like to know where he got that recipe.”

Tony laughed, “He didn’t get it. He made it up. Just like that Hairy Hangover drink. It’s really good, don’t you think?”

Ducky elbowed the door all the way open and dumped his bags on the kitchen table. “It is. I just wondered.”

Tim started emptying the bags Tony put down on the counters. “Carrots, broccoli, celery, onions, and snow peas in duck sauce isn’t that big a deal. Not like it’s thousand-year-old eggs or something.”

Everyone made various noises of disgust at that.

As Tim unbagged things, he handed them off to Tony or Jimmy to put away. Jimmy was in charge of the pantry, while Tony was in charge of anything fresh. So Jimmy was soon standing with a jar of Marmite in his hand. “What is this?”

Ducky nodded at the jar. “A taste of my childhood. The market has what they call a UK section. I picked up some things I miss from Scotland.”

Tony eyed another jar with some disfavor. “Bovril? Oh, my God. I hope you don’t intend for me to have any.”

Ducky chuckled, remembering that Tony’s mother was English. “Well, if you don’t want it, it’s just all the more for me.”

Tony scowled at the next box he pulled out of a bag. “Walker’s? Seriously? Mine are much better.”

“I know, dear boy, but I do hate to impose.” Ducky couldn’t help the slightly hopeful look he gave Tony.

“Pish tosh. Duck, you know I love to bake. I’ll make a batch as soon as those are gone, and you tell me when you run out.” He mock glowered at Ducky, who smiled serenely back. 

“Well. Thank you, then.”

As soon as they were done putting up the groceries that weren’t needed for supper, Tim started cooking…and issuing orders. “Tony, start the rice please. Jimmy, chop the carrots and cut the broccoli. I’ll do the onions; the peas just need a good wash. Ducky, if you would.” He rummaged around in the fridge. “Shrimp or chicken?”

Everyone voted for shrimp as the protein, never mind that it was called Hong Kong Chicken, so Tim set them out on the counter. “Someone not me gets to peel those.” Ducky said he’d do that job.

They settled in to finish their preparations and get the food on the table.

Tim fried the shrimp, then the vegetables; Tony handed him things, while Jimmy washed dirty dishes by hand. Ducky made tea and coffee.

By the time the rice maker dinged, the food was done, the table was set, with tea in a pot and coffee on the warmer for later.

Tim sighed, “Smells good, even if it I do say so myself.”

Jimmy nodded. “False modesty is self-aggrandizement in disguise.”

Ducky nodded. “Indeed it is. But enough of that; save it for your Dis.” 

Tony swallowed [his current mouthful] then said, “You’re already up to that? Man, you’re fast.”

Jimmy flushed with pleasure. “It doesn’t hurt that I have Ducky and Gibbs, not to mention the rest of you to help.” 

They continued to eat while they discussed Jimmy’s Dissertation for Abnormal Psychology. He had continued his education on-line and was working on becoming a Forensic Profiler like Ducky. 

They were soon finished and sitting in the back on the patio, drinking their coffee and enjoying the fine evening. Ducky told a story about his student days. Tony did the same. Jimmy told a story about the time his Mother caught him reading Playboy. Tim admitted to hacking the Boy Scouts Register. 

It was nearly 2100 when Ducky sighed and said, “Well, I’m for bed. I’m beginning to nod off.” He stood, stretched, then started for the back door. “Oh, my.” He looked over the fence. “What in the world?”

Tony stood up, kicking his chair away. “Someone’s in the back alley.”

Jimmy jumped to his feet and got between Tim and the alley gate. “Inside.”

Tim didn’t argue, he just hustled Ducky through the back door, following him into the tiny back entryway. Ducky reached up to a shelf and handed Tim a 9mm. “Here you go.” He grabbed the next one for himself. They waited on either side of the back door, sidearm in hand until Tony called, “Clear.”

Jimmy looked over the fence, “I have no idea what that ... person was after. Whoever it was, was just going through the garbage. Weird.”

Tony checked up then down the alley, called, “Clear,” then returned to the patio. “No idea either. They just scattered garbage all over ... like some dog looking for scraps. Ducky?”

Ducky motioned for everyone to return to the kitchen, which they did. They all seated themselves around the kitchen table.

“Well, I for one, would like a nice cup of tea. Jimmy?” Ducky settled in to think.

Jimmy made tea, efficiently scooping the herbal blend into the pot reserved for that tea alone. While he waited for water to boil, he set out mugs. When the water boiled, he poured it over the tea, then brought the tray to the table.

“Okay. Ideas?” Jimmy pushed the pot to Ducky, who poured tea into the mugs, then handed them around.

When everyone had tea, he began. “Very well. We have a stalker obsessed with Timothy. It has to be someone who has or has had contact with him. An obsessed fan who got an autograph and placed more import on it than there really is, a rejected girlfriend, a co-worker who thinks common courtesy implies more than it does.” He sighed. “This is escalating more quickly than usual. I don’t like it at all.” He sipped his tea for a moment while everyone waited for him to continue. “Timothy, any idea?”

Tim scowled into his mug for a moment. “Well ... no girlfriend. The last one was on line only and lives in California. I’m surprisingly celibate for a man my age. But, between the job and writing, no time and no real interest. Might be a fan but ... my autographs are all pretty generic. I don’t do the ‘to my best friend’ or ‘biggest fan’ sort of thing. My publishing house actively discourages it for exactly this reason. They gave me a list of ’safe’ phrases to use; I’ve pretty much stuck to it. As for a co-worker? That’s a possibility ... I guess.” His doubtful tone left them all with the same impression. This didn’t ring true, as most of his co-workers were in the Pod, and Abby wasn’t the stalkerish type. She’d just grab him by the ears and tell him how it was. 

Tony snarled wordlessly, then said, “Okay, so ... we got nothing. All we know is, this is escalating quickly. We’ve got letters going back at least a year and probably more. The first ones were innocuous, almost banal, so they could go back as much as three years or more. This is like hunting spiders in the dark.”

Ducky nodded. “As you say, we have nothing to go on. No facts to work with. So ... what do we do?”

Jimmy had been thinking about exactly that. “We’ll just have to wait for more. Abby’s got a few things to work with. The most recent letters, a couple of new emails, but that’s all. We need more clues. So, someone stays on Tim’s six 24/7, and we keep an eye out for faces. That’s one of the things ... a stalker can’t stay away from their target. So anyone we see at crime scenes on a consistent basis, anyone we see in the neighborhood that doesn’t live here ... that sort of thing. Also, anyone in NCIS that is constantly in the squad room that doesn’t work there.”

Tony agreed. “Okay.” He eyed Tim. “You cooperate or I’ll take you onto the mats and beat you like a drum.”

Tim shook his head. “After that last time? I’m worried, I’ll admit it. I don’t like this at all. What was that guy looking for in the garbage? That’s just ...” he shuddered. “Creepy.”

Ducky nodded. “A stalker will often create a shrine to their fixation. A sort of altar with pictures, mail from them, things they’ve gotten hold of one way or another. That includes things they’ve thrown away. One stalker in the UK actually kept ... well, never mind that; it’s quite disgusting. So ... Timothy, I’d recommend shredding any junk mail, and bring anything personal in to NCIS and put it in the incinerator.”

Tim sighed. “Okay, but the threats. What ... I mean ...” he rubbed his face. “I’m not sure what I mean.”

Tony took up on that. “Most stalkers, like that jerk Michael, want to control their ‘object,’ but the threats are usually vague: bad things will happen, you’ll get hurt, if I’m not there to protect you. Or ... well, you get the drift. When they start getting active, that’s when there’s a real problem. So far, no damage to vehicles, home, desk; anything like that. And I think that fire letter wasn’t supposed to be that ... dangerous. So we’ve got some time to get this figured out. I hope.” He sighed, finished his tea, and got up. “I’m for bed. Night.”

Everyone else headed for bed too. Ducky checked the security system on his way up. Jimmy got up thirty minutes after going to bed to do the same thing. Tony had checked it twice. Tim chuckled softly at all the checking and fell asleep.

.

[Chapter 4]

 

Gibbs glared at Tim’s desk for a split second, then snarled, “God Damn it! Again?” Right in the middle of his desk was a simple envelope with Tim’s name written on it. The problem was, it was unvetted. Gibbs called Abby to come up and collect it.

This one was, as Ducky said, the next step up. His frown let everyone know that this was getting more serious. The letter detailed specific things that Tim did that the stalker didn’t like and included the threat that, if he didn’t stop, the stalker would take steps. What the steps were wasn’t explained. 

Gibbs called the mail room, but Mr. Grant assured him that no one had delivered that letter. A quick check of the squad room security footage proved that true. Someone in a hoodie had come from the direction of the stairs, put the envelope on Tim’s desk, then gone back. The only problem was, he (or she) obviously knew exactly where the camera was and kept his face turned away.

Gibbs called Security and demanded to know how the hell someone had gotten into the stairwell without being challenged. The Head of Security said he was looking into it and that, as there was obviously some sort of hole, he was revamping security. 

At 0945 Gibbs snapped his phone shut and barked, “Grab your gear. DB in Rock Creek Park. Let’s go.” He grabbed his ruck and headed for the elevator with the entire Pod in tow.

When they arrived, no one was very happy to find out that the body was in the middle of the wedge bordered by Bingham Drive NW, Beech Drive NW, and Wise Road NW, near Jumpin’ Jack Spring. They were going to have to take Rock Creek Trail to Western Ridge Trail, then hike overland from there. Or park on Bingham Drive and hike an equal distance from that side, without the benefit of a trail. Ducky flat-out refused even to try. He was going to stay in Autopsy and await his body instead of trying to hike nearly three miles through the park. 

Gibbs picked up his ruck and slung it onto his back. “Okay. Let’s go.” The entire Pod followed suit, slinging rucks and equipment boxes onto their backs. 

After some examination and a bit of argument, the team now had every bit of equipment in some form of backpack or carry box that could be carried on their backs. Tony had opined that anything that only had a handle on it was FUBAR, as it was just too hard to carry anywhere except on pavement and, as he asked, “When do we ever actually have a body on real pavement?” Gibbs had actually had Tim run a program to find out. It turned out that approximately half their DB were located in ‘less than optimal’ locations, and ninety percent required carrying their equipment more than fifty feet. 

So they mounted up and headed out. The park ranger they were supposed to be following protested once and was told to “keep up and shut up;” the hard, ground-covering trot that the Pod favored had the man panting in less than five minutes. 

When they arrived at the body, Gibbs was beyond pissed to find a crowd of looky-lou’s hanging around. He told the ranger to get some help and push the crowd back a hundred yards and keep them there. The ranger got on his radio and called his command center; they were not happy to find out that there was a crowd. The dispatcher told him the same thing Gibbs did; she also informed the ranger that there were four others on their way to help with crowd control. 

When the other rangers arrived, they found the situation already under control, by three SEAL’s and a muscular Medical Examiner. They’d strung up a perimeter of crime scene tape and were patrolling it. Occasional calls of, “Behind the tape! Now!” let everyone know that they weren’t fooling.

Gibbs, Tim, and Tony walked the scene, looking for anything that might be a clue. Tim scowled at an old soda can, then picked it up. It looked too dirty to be recent, but it was right on the only path the perp could have taken. He bagged and tagged it and tucked it into his ruck. A bit of pink paper caught his eye and was duly bagged. He saw another bit and picked it up. Then another. He looked up to find a woman tearing a letter into bits and dropping them into the slight breeze blowing from behind her.

He sighed, then called, “Ma’am, you can’t do that. You’re contaminating the scene.” He walked over to her. “Could you give me that, please?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The woman was unremarkable in every way; average height, a bit overweight, mousy brown hair, brown eyes, white. Tim nodded and took the paper. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m just so upset. I was ... you didn’t ...” She started to cry softly. “And I just want someone to ... take care of. Is that so bad? Am I some sort of horrible person?”

Tim patted her on the shoulder. “No. Everyone needs someone. You just need to hang in there. Let me.” He pulled a tissue from his pocket and gave it to her. “Here.” He put the remains of the letter into an evidence bag, tagged it, and tucked it away. He headed back to the taped-off area, never noticing the hungry stare that followed him. 

They examined the area, the body, and so on. They took readings and measurements. Tony sketched. Jimmy gave his initial opinion of, “The poor guy was jogging on that trail and either fell or was pushed. He hit his head on the way down, but a broken neck was his death.” 

Back at the Yard, evidence was turned over to the “baggie bunnies,” with Tim overseeing the turnover. He didn’t notice the same nondescript woman half-hiding behind a rack at the back of the room. She smiled to herself as she caressed the tissue she held. “He loves me. He really does.”

Tim tried to sign the chain-of-evidence sheet, but his pen was out of ink. He shook it then tossed it into the trash. He took the pen the clerk offered, signed, then gave her back the pen. No one noticed when the nondescript woman scurried out to retrieve the pen from the trash, clasping it to her breast as if it was something precious.

Tim went back to his desk to do financials on their victim, Petty Officer Calvin Bets. He spent the rest of the day working on that and tracing phone calls. He ignored Remy’s hovering.

Remy kept an eye on the squad room; everyone in it got the eyeball. No one said much of anything, as everyone liked Tim, and most were more than a little concerned that someone was managing to get threats right into the building. They were also keeping an eye out for anyone unusual in the area.

Tim ignored all this in favor of doing his job properly. “Boss, got something. Not sure exactly what yet, but something in the financials doesn’t make sense. He’s been making payments of five hundred dollars to an account in New Jersey. I’ll need a court order to find out any more.”

Gibbs nodded. “I’ll tell Leon.” He picked up the phone and made the call. Contrary to popular belief, you did have to have an order to check someone’s account, and all requests at NCIS went through the head of Legal. In the case of the MCRT, that meant Leon Vance had to approve. Gibbs set up a conference call with Leon and Mercy Wells, the lawyer who handled most of the MCRT’s legal needs. 

It didn’t take long to get the order; Tim tapped a couple of keys and began his search for more information.

Half an hour later, he had the information that they needed. “Okay. He was sending the money to his sister. We don’t even need to find out why; she’s his sister, he has the right to send her money if he wants. Not blackmail, then. So ... what?”

Tony eyed the phone records, “Sort by contact, will you?”

Tim tapped; the sort changed from location of origin to contact. Everyone read through this, and one thing jumped out at them all, one contact in particular. 

Gibbs scowled. “Okay, looks like he returned calls to that one number a lot. Other incoming calls?”

More sorting resulted in a list of calls from that contact to the victim. “We need to trace that phone. Now.”

Tim put a trace on the number and requested account details from the service provider. They asked for an order, which Tim provided; the information showed that the number belonged to a man who had disappeared recently. His name was Chief Petty Officer Malcolm Paisley. 

Tony frowned at the list. “Okay. Close friend? Co-worker on the same project? Lover? What? We need to find this guy.”

Tim checked his trace. “No hit. Phone’s not on. I can turn it on remotely ... but I don’t want to, as it probably has some sort of noise attached to the boot-up. But ... if I ...” he tapped at some keys. “Nope. Can’t access without it being on. If I could, I was going to turn off the ...” he grinned. “Opening number, so to speak. But ...” 

Remy eyed the list of calls, mumbling, “Something ... something. Look, is there a pattern of any kind?”

Gibbs eyed the list too. “What sort?”

“Who called who from where? When who called who?” Remy rubbed his temples irritably. “There’s something there. I’m just not quite seein’ it.”

Dean frowned at the mess. “I don’t see anything. Somethin’s knockin’ but I’m not ...” he waved a hand. “Pisses me off.”

Leon Vance ambled down the stairs just then and looked at the list. “What’s this?”

Gibbs snarled, “A clue, if we could figure the damn thing out.”

Leon eyed the spread sheet then sighed. “One number, Number A, keeps calling the other; number B calls back. B calls A after 1900, but before 2230, never any other times except as a callback. Looks like a time sheet. See how the calls are clustered in two fifteen- minute time frames, and an hour with about two hours between? Who’s who?”

Tim replied. “B is our vic, Petty Officer Calvin Bets. A ... we don’t know much about him ... yet. But ...” he flipped tabs then said, “A, Chief Petty Officer Malcolm Paisley, calls from six places almost exclusively. Most of those places are within a six-block area, except for ... this address. It’s here.” He pinned the locations, then turned one green. “The rest of the calls are less than three at the location and scattered all over the area and clock.”

Tony thought for a moment then said, “Well, that gives us something to work with. Thanks, Mr. Director.”

Vance nodded, “Welcome.” He started to say more, but his phone rang. He answered it and walked off, talking to someone.

.

Abby eyed the tiny pile of evidence she had and grumbled, “I like a clean park as much as the next person, but really. Could have left me just a bit of something. And this pink shit? What’s with that?” She eyed the sheet of cheap pink paper and the scraps torn off it with disgust. It was “Extraneous to the investigation at hand.” In other words, it was a pile of crap that someone had contaminated the crime scene with. But she now had to test it, just to make sure to eliminate it as pertinent. “Blast.” 

She checked the run in the mass spec and grumbled, “Vance, you better produce.” It was running properly, but slowly. The last bunch of samples had all been from another case, and that team lead was breathing down her neck. She was actually thinking of setting Gibbs on him. He’d bugged her so much that she hadn’t gotten her report on the results from Tim’s locker to Vance yet.

She flipped through it while she waited for results. She didn’t find anything new, not that she ever missed anything, ever. And this time there had been things to find. The white powder on the jacket was talc, the sort that evidence gloves were powdered with. No fingerprints that shouldn’t be there. The deodorant had been laced with LSD and DMSO, so had the cologne. The fabrics were all soaked with the same fluid in ‘sweat’ spots. Abby cringed when she thought about what might have happened to Tim if he’d used any of the products or worn the clothing. She decided to call the gym and have them decontaminate the locker, just in case. She also sent Vance what she had via email, with a cc. to Tony, Tim, and Jimmy. They’d tell everyone else. She didn’t bother to cc. Gibbs; he wouldn’t read it.

She grumbled again as she realized that they really had nothing. She’d managed to isolate the chemicals, but not come up with any rhyme or reason, no suspect, nor how they got to Tim’s things. She sighed and eyed her babies. “You’re not helping.” 

.

Nancy Jones was convinced that Tim would show his love for her soon. She just had to get him away from that bunch of nasty, murdering soldiers that he hung around with. Her first attempt hadn’t worked; she wasn’t really sure why. He needed to understand that he needed her to take care of him. She settled in with her coffee to plan something new. 

.

Tony paced the bullpen, checking for he wasn’t sure what. He was restless and bitchy.

Tim looked up from the latest attempt to turn on that phone. He had a court order giving him access, but it wasn’t on, so he couldn’t do anything, and he was getting pissed. And members of the Pod kept popping up, looking around, then disappearing again. That was beginning to get on his nerves too.

Dean wandered through the bullpen, stopping at every desk occupied by a member of the Pod. He caught Tim’s eye and waggled a note pad at him. “Be thinkin’ what you want.”

When he reached Tim, he surprised everyone by ordering a Sesame Tofu Veggie wrap with extra slaw and an alfalfa smoothie.

Tony got an odd look on his face and, when Dean asked for his order, he ordered the same thing. Gibbs looked at both of them like they were nuts.

“What? You two wouldn’t eat that shit on a bet.” He couldn’t believe two of his carnivores were eating rabbit food and tofu willingly. 

“Kate.” Tony’s simple explanation made Gibbs blink. 

Tim explained, “It’s Kate’s birthday and I always have her favorite today, if I can manage it.” 

Gibbs just said, “Ok, change my order. I’ll have the same as those two.” 

Dean just changed the order. A quick glance around had him changing everyone’s order. “Ok. I’ll be back in about thirty.” As he walked away, he called Jimmy, then Abby. They also changed their orders, as did Ducky.

Dean was soon back, and Ducky and Jimmy came up when Gibbs called down; they picked Abby up on their way.

Dean distributed the wraps and drinks. Abby peeled back the paper from hers and took a bite. “Mmmm, yum.” Abby’s happy satisfied smile encouraged the SEALs to give the food a try.

Tony just munched his way into his with a resigned expression. His pleased smile made Remy grin. “Ever’ting betta with Saracha on it.” Tony burst out laughing. 

The rest just smiled and ate. Jimmy, who had barely known Kate, started, “I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked, but she was always kind to me. Even when she gave me that ‘If-you-were-my-brother-I’d-smack-you’ look.” He grinned at Tony. “You know the one.”

Tony nodded. “Oh, yeah, believe me, I know.” He took a swig of the smoothie, made a face, opened the cup and spit it back. “I am not drinking that thing. No.” He recovered the cup and dropped it into the nearest trash. “I remember one Thanksgiving. Gibbs was in Stillwater. She asked if I was going to visit family and I ... well, I’d just come back from a hard mission and I was feeling ... off. I told her all about my father in a pity party of epic proportions. She just invited me home with her. I went and had a ball. Her brothers are truly insane. I really like them. We’re still in touch.”

Tim frowned. “So, you didn’t mind that she’d really zing you?”

Tony thought about that while he chewed. He swallowed then said, “You ever notice that she seemed to know when she’d really hurt my feelings?” Gibbs grunted noncommittally and Tim nodded. “Well, she’d bake all my favorites and leave them on the seat of my car.” He sighed. “I really miss those cookies.”

Ducky told a story about the time Kate came in just as they sat a body up and it groaned. She’d had a panic attack and nearly fainted. He chuckled and ended, “Only a reaction to having its lungs compressed when we moved him, but the dear fellow did give Caitlin quite a fright.”

Abby told about getting the tattoo, and admitted that it was actually a rose on her butt. “She never said things like that. She called it her bum, like Ducky. She was really a lady.”

It wasn’t long before the food was gone and Tony admitted that, with the sauce, it really wasn’t that bad, except for the alfalfa smoothie. That was still nasty. 

Jimmy collected all the trash and wadded it up into a ball; he tossed it all into the trash bag on the nearby janitor’s cart. The janitor laughed and applauded his shot, calling, “Nothing but net.”

Everyone went back to work. The janitor ambled off to finish emptying the trash, pushing his cart into a closet and taking the bag with him. He said hello to Jane in an absent sort of way… at least he thought that was her name. He didn’t hear her grumble sourly, “It’s Nancy, you jerk.”

She trotted away after realizing that what she coveted was gone. She would keep an eye out for other treasures. Tim was sure to lose something else soon; he was careless with his things. Someday she’d get them all back to him.

.

Tim frowned, rummaged in his bag again, then asked, “Anyone see my towel? I swear I had one in my bag.” He used a handful of paper towels from the roll in his bottom drawer to wipe the sweat off his face and neck. He’d been crawling around on the floor for the last half hour trying to find the reason why all Gibbs' monitors were full of snow. He’d finally found the spot in the master cable where it had worn through, right at the collar where it emerged from the conduit under the floor.

Tony looked up from his phone. “I’m sure you put a clean one in this morning. I remember because you had to use one of those piss-green ones, and Jimmy teased you about it.”

“Well, it’s not in there now. I’m going down to the gym and take a shower. I stink.” He scrambled to his feet and grabbed his ruck.

Tony eyed his phone, then just shrugged and got up to follow Tim, still working on whatever it was. “I’m comin’ too.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Tim was now pissed. He wondered where his towel was.

Gibbs walked in from getting coffee. “Tim? What the hell?”

“Fixed your monitor problem. Which involved groveling around under your desk to fix the cable. Now ... I’m gonna take a shower and change my clothes before someone passes out from the stink.” He grinned. “And AJ’s goin’ along to hold my hand.”

Tony aimed a swing at Tim, who ducked, then trotted off with his ruck tucked under his arm.

Tony just settled on a folding chair just outside the showers, pulled a book out of his thigh pocket, and started to read. He read until Tim was finished with his shower, keeping one eye on the locker room, even though he seemed totally engrossed in his book.

Tim finished his shower and used a locker-room towel to dry off with. He tossed it into the hamper and went to his new locker to get his clean clothes. He scowled when he pulled his ruck out and realized that all he had available there were NWUs. Cosmo had picked them up for him as a joke. He’d just stuffed them in his ruck. He wondered why they were the only clothes he had in his ruck.

“AJ, when I replenished my ruck, didn’t I put some civvies in?” Tim pulled everything out of the pocket he kept clothing in.

“Yeah, that green shirt that you don’t particularly like and a pair of khaki Dockers. Why?” Tony got up and ambled over to stand by Tim.

They’re not here. Only the NWU’s and my underwear.” He tossed the pack down. “Damn it! Stalker-bitch has been in my ruck. How the hell did that ...” he let out a snarl.

“I don’t know. Your ruck has been under your desk since you came in this morning. Did you check your stuff for contaminants?” Tony was worried that their tango had doped Tim’s clothing again.

“Yeah, I checked it before I put it on. Abby let me have some of those drug test kits. Just rub the pad on the suspect item, then put some drops on it. I just used one on everything. No reaction, but ...Damn it. I’m gonna keep my ruck in my damn hand from now on.” Tim picked up his pack and headed for Abby’s lab to let her go over it again.

Tony followed, phone to his ear. “Yeah, clothing missing. We’re goin’ to Labby to let Abs check for anything useful.” He listened for a moment. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” he shut his phone and said, “Jet says to have Abby check any edibles for contaminants.”

Tim scowled. “Fuck. I keep trail mix in baggies and crackers and cheese just wrapped in Saran wrap. Bet Stalkerazzi dosed it.” 

Tim charged into Abby’s domain and turned off the music.

Abby whirled around, an indignant, “Hey!” on her lips. She never said it, instead a soft squeak left her mouth. “Okay, who did what to whom?”

Tim handed her the ruck, explaining what happened quickly. He finished, “And I want you to check all the unsealed food items for ...” he waived a hand. “Whatever. And I’m getting really, really tired of this shit.”

Gibbs charged in just then. “Tim! You okay?”

“Fine, just royal pissed. This is getting stupid ridiculous. I can’t go to the store without an escort; I can’t leave anything anywhere and know it’s safe. I’m gonna kill someone, I swear. When we find this jackwad, I’m punchin’ ‘im in the head.” He turned from his rant to find the whole Pod standing in the lab, watching him melt down. “What?”

Dean held up a file card, obviously snatched from Abby's work table. “7 for emotion, but only a 4 on profanity.” He flipped the card over.

Cosmo also held up a card. “8 for emotion, also a 4 for profanity. But, all in all, well done.”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, sideways. Jerk.” But Tim was laughing.

Abby smiled. “Better?”

“Yeah. But check everything, please.” Tim sighed, rubbed his face, then hitched a hip on the side table. Abby didn’t like that, but he was way beyond caring.

Abby didn’t say anything about sitting on her table; she knew how to pick her fights, and right now the only fight she wanted to pick was with the person they were calling either the Stalkerazzi or Stalker-bitch. They weren’t sure it was a woman, but Abby said, and Ducky agreed, that this sort of stalking was usually a woman.

.

Ducky poked Remy in the ribs, ducked under the reflexive swat, and demanded, “What do we have?”

Abby pointed, “Mess. Every open food, munchies, cheesy crackers, whatever, has been laced with rufies; flunitrazepam, to be specific. There’s several other drugs in that family; this one is illegal in the US, but you can get it online from Canada and other countries where it is legal.” She frowned at the pile of foods. “It’s in the trail mix as a powder; the cheesy crackers have it mixed into the cheese spread, and the peanut butter/jelly rolls have it in the jelly. And that’s what makes me really suspicious. Everyone knows that Tim hates strawberry jam. Well, everyone who really knows him.” She motioned to another pile of stuff. “I inspected the MRE’s and anything sealed. They seem to be okay, but someone should give them a really thorough once over.”

Remy just went over to the pile. “Glass?”

Abby waved a hand at her lighted magnifying glass. “Use that. Just move it over. When you’re done, you can leave it there. Thanks.”

Remy nodded, moved the light and started going over the MRE’s and other sealed items. He did remark, “Damn, Tim, you scared a’ starvin’?”

Tim snorted. “I carry everything I might need for at least four days OOC. You?”

Remy smirked. “Six.” He went back to his task with a frown.

Dean, tired of standing around, announced, “I’m going to go up and take a look at the security footage.”

Gibbs nodded. “You do that. I’m gonna hang here until I’ve got something to tell Vance. He’s going to go mental. Cos?”

“Yeah.” Cosmo perked up at the thought of something to do.

“Stand outside the lab door. This place, and any place Tim is, is under lockdown until further notice.”

Tony just joined Cosmo at the door, standing on the other side of it.

Dean headed to the elevator to check the footage from Gibbs’ desk. He had to do a bit of a dance to avoid knocking some mousy woman down, as she was trying to get off the elevator as he tried to go on. “Sorry. My bad.” 

Tony yelled, “Off before on, moron.”

The woman made a small meeping noise before scurrying into the stairwell and disappearing.

.

Tim went into Abby’s office and flopped gracelessly into her chair. “Fucking hell. Damn it.” He turned to the computer, put his hands on the keyboard, then dropped them into his lap. “No. Just ... what do I search for? Who? How?” He glared at the monitor. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice from the door asked, “Digimon? You okay?”

Tim looked up at Jimmy. “No, I’m not. Who is doing this? What do they want? How do we fight them? I’m goin’ nuts here. My skills are useless. I can’t do anything.”

Jimmy sighed. “And that’s the true problem with a stalker. Until you identify who they are and what their agenda is, you can’t do anything. And, until they prove that they’re a viable threat, the police can’t help. And some won’t anyway.” He settled in the extra chair. “I’m stayin’ right here. I know it’s gonna be a pain in the ass. But ...” he shrugged.

Tim nodded. “Thanks. I just feel helpless. If there was something to work with ... at least we could ... do something,” he gestured a bit wildly. “But, as it is ... nothing.”

Remy popped his head in the door to say, “Anything sealed is fine. No pinholes, no resealed stuff. Anything that was open, that’s a problem. So ... no unsealed anything until further notice.”

Tim grumbled. “That means no Abby Mix, no pinwheels, no good, homemade cheese crackers. Shit!”

Abby elbowed Remy aside. “No, it does not. I’ll just seal anything in one of those vacuum seal things. I’ve got a machine. You’ll just have to eat it all at one go, or make sure to put it in a pocket or something. I’ll make up a batch tonight.” She turned to go. “Oh, and I want to check everyone’s stuff. I’m not too sure Stalker-bitch might not have dosed everyone.”

Remy snarled. “Well, shit,” and went up to collect all the rucks.

He returned about ten minutes later with Director Vance and Dean in tow. “Okay, here’s the rucks.” He tossed one to Vance. “If you’re gonna hang, make yourself useful. Start sorting.” Vance snatched the ruck out of the air. “Anything sealed, on that table for Remy to look at.” Vance gave him an odd look. “Nem’me mind.”

Remy went to the side table where he settled back at his magnifier. “I’ll let Jet finish sorting shit.”

Gibbs was already going through the packs with ruthless efficiency. Since this entailed dumping everything out of the pack, rummaging for foodstuffs, then shoving everything back in, there was a bit of mess involved. There was also some bitching about having carefully packed rucks jumbled. Gibbs just barked, “Shut it! You need to clean these bastards out once in a while anyway.”

Jimmy just took his pack into the office and finished the job Gibbs had started. He repacked everything, checking for trash that had been stuffed wherever, then went to trade places with Dean so he could do the same. Then Dean traded with Tony and so on until everyone had repacked his ruck. 

Abby eyed the pile of paper, crushed juice boxes, and smashed cans with disgust. “Ya’all’s just gross.” She had developed the habit of reverting to her Cajun roots when she was stressed, like Remy.

Gibbs handed her the samples he’d taken. “Mass a’ shit. Have fun.”

Abby eyed the tray with disgust. “Well, fuck. That’s a lot of tests to do.”

Gibbs sighed. “Okay, when you’re right, you’re right. How do I help?”

Abby looked at the huge tray of samples. “Sort. I need them sorted by wet or dry, then just put a bit of each into a sample vial.” She smiled. “Make sure you label each tube with the sample number, then put them in a rack by wet or dry. I’ll start on a rack. By the time it gets each one ready for testing ... well, we’ll be here for awhile.”

Gibbs eyed the mess. “I don’t think we actually need to run all that through the mass spec, do we? We know that Tim’s food was laced with rufies. So ... can’t we just test for contamination first, then try to figure out what it is?”

Abby chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes. Not that you’re an infant, which is the usual connotation of that phrase, but you’re sure a babe. I mean, you’re ...”

Gibbs just eyed Abby. “Abs. On task.”

“Yeah, right. So, you’re right. We only need to test if we’re sure it’s contaminated. So ... not sure exactly how to do that. We’ve got enough samples to test everything for ... well, everything.”

She set up an assembly line with Vance as observer and oversight. 

It didn’t take long to figure out that Tim’s food was rufie’d. Tony had one baggie of contaminated trail mix, but he admitted to trading it out of Tim’s ruck, with his permission, as he’d had one that had carob bits in it, and he hated the chocolate substitute. Everyone else’s stuff was all safe. 

It took them over three hours to complete the tests. 

At the same time Dean, Tim, and Cosmo went over bullpen security footage, while Remy and Tony kept the door. Ducky had retreated to his office to try to make up a profile from what they knew for sure.

.

Vance was beyond livid now. Dean had found a bit of footage of someone messing with Tim’s ruck. Cosmo found the same thing from a different angle. 

Someone walked into the bullpen while everyone else was gone. The person took Tim’s clothing out of the ruck, as well as his snacks, replacing the snacks with others from her hoodie pocket. She also took his towel. A few moments later Tony and Tim entered. Tony rummaged in his ruck, then handed Tim a baggie. Tim handed him a different one back. They returned to their desks and went to work. A few minutes after that, Gibbs returned to his desk, and the SEALs all wandered in to take places at the side desks.

“Run it again. See if you can’t isolate a face or something.”

Tim nodded. “Already done, Boss.” He fiddled with Abby’s clicker for a moment then pointed. “There. No face. Our perp kept her face turned away; the hoodie kept the camera from picking up anything useful ... and, on an aside, how the hell did anyone wander around the squad room with a hoodie, hood up and no one say anything to her? Anyway ... I did get a hand. It’s a woman.”

Gibbs looked blank for a moment. “You got a hand? From?”

“Our perp.” Tim beamed at the monitor.

“Our perp gave you a hand?” Gibbs was getting more confused.

Tony sighed. “And Who’s On First.” He ignored the looks. “In the footage, all we can see is a hoodie. But we can also see the perp’s hand. A female hand. She’s wearing a ring. Tim? Can you zoom in?”

Tim zoomed. “Won’t do much good. I looked the ring up. It’s so common it’s a crime. I’ve seen that particular cheap Claddagh ring on at least six people in the building. Two of them male. But from the bone structure, size and diameter of wrist ... female.” He fiddled with his control for a moment. “And that’s the extent of it. We now know that the Stalker-bitch is actually a bitch. But what does she want?”

Abby snarled. “When I find her, she’s dead meat. Bald, dead meat. I’ll snatch her bald. I’ll break her fingers. I’ll ... I’ll.” She let out a little squeal of fury.

Remy shrugged. “Don’t know what she wants yet. But ... rufies? She wants our Digimon’s bod for sure. What else? We better find out quick.”

Vance cleared the decks easily. He’d been in and out since they’d started analyzing things. “I’ll have what visuals we have sent to Security. Tim?” Tim nodded. “We have clear cause. Drugging someone is a Class A misdemeanor; drugging a Federal agent is a Class B felony. Theft of personal property less than $250 is a Class A misdemeanor.”

Tim sighed, then announced, “Shirt, Armani, $100. Pants, Calvin Kline, $150. Underwear, gift from Abby, Silk, $75. And shoes, Gucci, $380. All prices rounded down.” 

Vance grumbled, “Well, shit. Class D felony then.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “And it’s a clear and present danger. So ... find out who, don’t give a fuck about why. And fix this.” He snarled wordlessly and stormed out to go yell at Security.

Tim watched him go, then grumbled, “Well, okay, fine then. It’s going to be so much fun.” He got up, checked his sidearm, then headed out the door. “I’m going back to my desk. We’ve still got to find Chief Petty Officer Malcolm Paisley. I’ve traced his phone. I sent Balboa and Carmichael to pick him up.” He looked around. “You were all occupied with something else. It doesn’t make any difference; they didn’t find him. His phone was being used by his sister. She got it off the counter a couple of days ago and has been using it, as hers is broken.”

Tony scowled. They’d been falling down on their job, concern for Tim taking their attention off their case. He was not happy. “Remy. Gym. Now.”

Remy just shrugged. “Fine.”

Everyone trooped after the two men to watch the match. Tony sometimes took someone on the mats with him just to work off steam, as Tim had the other day with Mellon. Only he had to be careful, or someone would get hurt, and it wouldn’t be him.

When they got there, the gym was deserted, so Remy and Tony just pulled off their boots and got to it. 

The mats were always down, so they didn’t have to mess with setting them out. The trainers were all somewhere else, so they didn’t have to deal with their questions, fussing, or refereeing either.

Remy waited for AJ to do something; he wasn’t about to put himself in arm's reach of AJ when he was in this sort of mood. His only hope of staying upright was to wear him down. 

This was not one of those showy fights like you saw in a Steven Seagal or Jackie Chan movie. This was the sort of fight where someone got knocked down, or out. 

Remy cautiously edged to the very center of the mats; he deflected a karate chop with the outside edge of his forearm, looking for an opening. AJ kicked low, aiming for Remy’s lower abs, but Remy turned and took it on his left glute. He winced, grumbled, “Ow! Man, that hurt,” then used his longer reach to slap AJ, hard, in the throat. Tony choked, gagging at the sensation. Remy didn’t let him have a chance to catch his breath; he jammed Tony and tried to shove him off the mats. It didn’t work, but it was a near thing.

Tony replied to Remy’s attack by a backward sweep-kick to the back of his knee. Remy’s knee “broke,” making him stumble, but he managed to jump back and regain his balance. They both paused in their attacks to catch their breath, Remy to rub sensation back into his leg, and Tony to clear his throat. The entire Pod cheered impartially for both of them.

Remy nodded at Jimmy, who was eyeing him from the sidelines. “Bien, ami.”

Jimmy nodded, then gave Tony the same fish eye. Tony cleared his throat then croaked, “Fine.” 

“Okay, then, stop fuckin’ around and fight!” Jimmy slashed his hand through the air in a well-recognized gesture.

Tony took advantage of Remy’s distraction and jumped him. Remy was now in exactly the position he didn’t want, wrestling with Tony. They rolled around on the mat, each man attempting to pin the other. It didn’t take long for Tony to subdue Remy’s flailing limbs, and get him down and into a neck-breaker. Remy slapped the mat. Tony got up and offered his hand to Remy. 

Remy took Tony’s hand, grumbling good-naturedly. “AJ, damn it, I’d a’ had ya this time.” 

Tony pulled Remy to his feet. “You wish.”

“I do, that I do.” Remy laughed. he sat down to rub his knee.

Tony rubbed his throat. “I’ll be croaking for a week.”

Abby, who had ventured out of her lab to watch, offered Caf-Pow. “It’ll sooth your throat.”

Tony rejected the offer with loathing. “Oh, my Great Aunt Gerty. No. Not only no, but hell no. That shit is poison.”

Abby snickered, sucked up a big mouthful, and swallowed with an audible gulp. “Too bad, so sad. More for me.” She settled beside Tim to listen to the critique. Everyone participated, pointing out how each combatant could have done something different. Maybe not better, but different.

Tony shrugged out of his shirt and said, “I’m changing into a dry suit and goin’ for a swim.” He headed into the locker room to put on his suit, followed by the rest of the Pod. 

Ducky just sighed. “Our young Anthony is in a real snit.”

Abby sighed right back. “Me too, actually. There’s such a lack of clues ... it’s really worrying. If we don’t catch this nutjob ... bad; really, really bad.”

.

Nancy watched as her heart ran down the dock with that bunch of losers and dove into the river. He was going to get hurt some day; she had to convince him to stay away from them. She went back inside to write yet another letter to him. She was going to have to deliver it herself; her co-workers wouldn’t do it anymore. Not that they’d ever done it out of friendship; she’d always had to trick them into doing what was necessary. She pulled his shirt out of her bottom drawer, took a comforting sniff of his special scent, then tucked it back away.

When she was finished with her letter, she took advantage of someone’s distraction to slip her letter into a file intended for Tim; that way he’d get her special letter without trouble from that pest in the mailroom. She decided that she really needed to do something about Mr. Grant; he interfered way too much in other people's business. She was really pissed that her ‘fire letter’ had managed to get to Tim, instead of being intercepted by Mr. Grant, as she’d expected. She had to plan something else for him.

.

Mr. Grant was a creature of habit, and everyone who worked with, or even near him, knew his habits. One was, he had a snack on his break which consisted of half a bottle of sports drink and a piece of fruit. Therefore, everyone knew that he kept a stash of drinks in his bottom desk drawer. Nancy easily slipped into his office with her everpresent bag over her arm. She switched out the four bottles of drink with different bottles of her own “special” formula.

Mr. Grant didn’t notice that the seal on his bottle of sports drink was broken. One of the places he got it opened his bottle for him because of his arthritis. He did notice that it tasted a bit too sweet. He decided that they’d changed the recipe on him and just diluted it with water, 60-40. He did notice when he started feeling unwell. Since he had hypoglycemia, he just assumed it was a sugar crash and drank more sports drink. 

By the time he was sure it was something else, it was nearly too late. The muscle weakness, dizziness, and blurred vision made it nearly impossible to reach the door of his office. He made it into the hall, then collapsed in convulsions. This brought people running, and he was on his way to the hospital in no time. It took the doctors forever to diagnose his problem as propylene glycol poisoning, as he had all the symptoms of a stroke.

While Mr. Grant was still in the ER, his secretary helped herself to the bottles of sports drink, sharing them with her two best friends. They also collapsed, the two best friends sent to the same hospital as Mr. Grant. Miss Tomkins went to Ducky’s tender care. Her weak heart hadn’t been able to handle the strain.

.

Gibbs eyed Vance. In this, they were co-investigators, not boss and subordinate. “We’ll wait until the guys get back from their swim. Lucky I didn’t go with, but I had some paperwork to catch up on, and I wasted enough time watching the fight. And investigating this stalker shit.”

Leon nodded. “Understandable. But this is just too odd to go without a look. First Grant, then his secretary and her two best friends. Something’s off.”

They reached the area where the women had collapsed. “Is everything undisturbed?” Gibbs eyed the agent on the door of the break room.

“Yes, sir. I stepped in the second the EMT’s left. Everything’s the way they left it. Food on the table, coffee in the cups. And ... some sort of sports drink.” He pointed to the bottles on the table. One was overturned and spilled, but the other two still had a few swallows left.

Gibbs put his kit down on a side table, then took pictures of everything while Vance prowled the room, careful not to disturb anything. After taking nearly five hundred pictures, Gibbs got out a sample kit and used a spatula to scrape as much of the liquid as he could into a sample jar. He sealed it and labeled it. He also collected every bit of food, either sealing the original containers, or putting the substance into a container. He made careful note of where he got it, who claimed it, and exactly what it was. The drink containers were also carefully collected, sealed, and labeled. 

“You think we need to sample the carpet?” Gibbs wasn’t about to cut up the break-room carpet without asking, although, as lead agent, he really didn’t need to.

“Rip it up entirely if you think you need to. This is not an accident. I want to know what the hell happened here.” Leon Vance was on a real tear now. They had a stalker, a stroke, and three people down with some kind of poison, one dead. “I want results and I want them quick. Get moving. You need something, you got it.”

Gibbs nodded, “I need the rest of my team A-SAP.” 

Vance nodded. “I’ll call the Coast Guard to pick ‘em up.” He dialed as he left the room.

Gibbs looked up to see several evidence technicians standing by. “Rip up the carpet and look for ... anything. You.” He handed the samples to another tech, signed the chain of custody forms, and ordered, “Take all that to Lab Three. Abby’ll have a fit, but I don’t trust that mass spec of hers anymore. Tell her to go there and help.” The tech winced. “If she has a fit, tell her to call Vance.” The tech took the box and hurried out.

.

The Pod were halfway back to the pier where the Barry was docked when they were hailed by a Coast Guard Defender Class Homeland Security Response Boat. The 25-foot-long, 34-inch-draft boat pulled up alongside the swimmers, and the captain used a loud hail system to call, “Ahoy swimmers, prepare to be taken aboard.”

The Pod all began to tread water, waiting for the boat to ease up, the pilot being careful not to swamp them with the wake. When someone dropped a ladder overside, they scrambled up, taking warm blankets from a Guardie. 

Tony went to see the captain. “Captain, what’s going on?”

“LtCmdr DiNozzo?”

“That’s me.”

The Captain saluted, then said, “I’ve been ordered to pick you up and get you back to the Yard. Seems that there’s some sort of situation there, and you’re needed. No more intel than that. Sorry.” 

Tony returned the salute. “Okay, thanks. Wonder what the hell is up.”

“No idea. Just got the order to get you back to the Yard with all reasonable speed.” The Captain kept his eye on his bridge, nearly ignoring Tony.

Tony didn’t take offense at this; a good captain was always more concerned with his boat than he was with some passenger. 

The SRB docked at the ladder they always used to return to the Yard. “Here you are.” The Guardie saluted, collected blankets, and watched as the whole group scrambled up the ladder to the deck of the pier. “Wonder what the hell that was all about?”

Another Guardie shrugged. “No idea, not gonna ask. Probably above our pay scale by OFC.”

“Wha’?”

“Oh Fuck, Classified.” They went back to their duties, satisfied that they’d done their job.

.

A quick trot to the NCIS building, shower and change later saw them all gathered in Vance’s office. 

Leon Vance eyed the group, then said, “We have a real problem on our hands. Some bright light in the ER figured out that Mr. Grant was poisoned with anti-freeze, as well as the three ladies. Seems that they helped themselves to his sports drinks. So the target was Mr. Grant. Abby tested the drinks before anything else, as she didn’t like the look of them. The ER took stomach content samples from everyone when they pumped their stomachs. We’re very lucky that Mr. Grant managed to vomit in the ambulance, or he’d be dead now. One of the techs found his cup in his office, and we tested it: sports drink and propylene glycol, diluted with water. Another reason he’s still alive.” He glowered around. “I’m done. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m sure this is connected to Tim’s stalker. Not sure why, but it is. Find this bitch.” He slammed his hand down on his desk. “Go!”

Gibbs nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. And what about that analysis we were supposed to get from HR? Ducky needs it for his profile. Check on that.” He turned and left, secure in the knowledge that Vance would find out what he needed.

Vance made a call to HR to find out where his information was. He was passed from one desk to another until he threatened to send Gibbs up to get what he wanted. That was one of his main threats; if a satellite office messed up too badly, he just threatened to send in Gibbs and his team to retrain them all. They usually straightened right up. He was soon very displeased to find that the analysis wasn’t even started. He slammed the phone down and headed for HR to find out exactly what was going on. Dr. Oberg was very distressed to have Director Vance in his office demanding something he didn’t even know he was supposed to have done.

“What the hell do you mean, 'I didn’t know'? Miss ... someone or other, brought you something like three ring binders full of shit to analyze. We need a psychological profile on this stalker A-SAP. And your analysis is crucial. You find those documents and get it done. You don’t leave this building until you do. I mean, you eat, sleep, and shit here 24/7. Got me?” Vance got in the doctor's face.

“Yes ... I do ... I’ll have my girl find the folders and get right on it.” He buzzed for the secretary who ambled in with a slight smile for the director.

“How can I help you, Doctor?” She waited while he explained that she had mis-filed some documents that he was supposed to go over, then just walked around his desk [and pulled the binders out of the bookcase behind it]. “These? They were put right in the middle of your blotter with this on top.” She handed him the note and dropped the ring binders on his desk with a loud bang. “I can’t help it if you don’t read memos. And ... don’t call me a girl. I’m all of 35.” She turned to Director Vance. “It’s hell working for him. He’s condescending, rude, and self-centered. He’s also deflecting, accusatory, and excusatory. I’m glad I work out of the pool and only have to deal with him on an occasional basis. But, one more incident like this, and I’m filing an official complaint. He’s good at his job but he’s a ... jerk.” She left, closing the door quietly behind her. 

Vance eyed the doctor for a moment then snarled, “I want that analysis in ...” he glanced at his watch, “twelve hours; that’s close of business tomorrow. Stay all night if you have to. And quit pissing off the secretaries.” He stormed out to have Cynthia do a “personality check” on the man. 

It didn’t take long for her to come back with the scuttlebutt that he was good at his job, but all the support personnel hated him with a passion. He tended to put things off until the last minute, then blame someone else for the problem. He also stuffed files into his bookcases to clear off his desk, and then blamed the secretaries when he couldn’t find something. Vance wrote him up himself and called the head of the department for a consultation that resulted in Dr. Oberg being subjected to Sensitivity Re-Training and a class in Secretarial Practices taught by the head of the secretarial pool. 

His analysis was sent up to Vance by 0830 the next day. He said that the communication had escalated from Stage One to Stage Three over the course of the last two years…in other words, from an obsessed fan who was not a threat, to an obsessed stalker who might be a collector. If the person was a collector, he was rapidly moving from Stage Three to Stage Four, and that did pose a threat.

The problem with a Stage Four, which was an NCIS departmental designation, was that a Stage Four tended to become possessive and isolationist. They wanted their target’s attention all to themselves and would go to any lengths to get it. They also thought that everyone was trying to come between them and their target and could become violent, targeting anyone they suspected of interference. Dr. Oberg was of the opinion that the poisoning of Mr. Grant was because he was making it hard to deliver the “love notes” to Special Agent McGee. The secretary and her friends were collateral damage, as one of them admitted that they had helped themselves to the drinks, saying that they did it quite often, and Mr. Grant didn’t mind as long as they replaced the drinks the next day. Vance kept his thoughts on that to himself.

Vance thought about the complaints he’d been getting the last six months or so. Security was required to report all complaints of theft from agents to him as a matter of company policy. Theft from support staff was investigated by security, but theft from an agent could be put down to sticky fingers or, more importantly, to some sort of threat to the agency. So he now opened his files and sorted, not by item, but by who it was stolen from. This gave him a list of everything that had been reported stolen from Timothy McGee. He called Gibbs and told him, “Tell McGee to make a list of everything that’s come up missing in the last ... six to eight months. Even something that he might not have thought was important. Weird stuff like half-eaten food, dirty clothing, empty containers, that sort of thing. As far back as he can remember.”

Gibbs relayed the orders and went down to see Abby. She’d stayed all night as well, testing everything from the break room and the samples the ER had sent over from the stomach contents. She was also catching up on a couple of cases.

Gibbs returned to the bullpen in a foul mood, only to be even more frustrated by Tony’s information that they still didn’t have a location for Paisley; the man had dropped under the radar and slipped away. His sister admitted that he had a crush on Bets, but Bets didn’t return the affection. Paisley hadn’t done anything, as far as she knew, but call Bets on the phone, trying to get him to go out for coffee.

Dean’s opinion of that was, “Yeah, obsessively call, every break, every lunch hour, every whatever. Man was getting pissed, or I miss my guess. My bet is that he called one time too many, and Bets told him to piss off. Paisley got pissed instead and offed him.”

Gibbs nodded. “I think you’re right, but the only way to prove it is to sweat Paisley until he cracks. To do that, we need him in interrogation. Fucking find him!”

Tim scowled; he’d run every trace he could think of, with no result. He finally said, “Best bet is to stake out a couple of the places he called from. There’s a coffee house that looks like a good bet. He called from there at least 40 times; can give you an exact count if you like.” He grinned at Gibbs’ glower. “There’s also a tea shop slash bookstore with around the same number of calls. I’d say he won’t stray too far from that area, but he’s not going back to his apartment; we’ve had that staked out for the last three days, courtesy of Ned Dorneget. He’s been hanging around enough that the cops are beginning to watch him.”

“When’d he call in?” Gibbs eyed the map, thinking.

“Last night, just before we went home. He called to say he was going home for a shower and change. I told him to forget it and come in today.”

Tim fiddled with his map for a moment, then tossed the clicker onto his desk. “We need to find this jerk soon. The case is on the verge of going cold. I’m really sorry, boss.”

Gibbs shrugged. “Not your fault. You haven’t let this stalker interfere with your job enough to make a difference. We’ve got squat. Paisley might or might not be crushing on Bets. He might have some other reason for calling so much. Bets might be running some sort of betting pool, running an off-base poker game that he won’t let Paisley in on. We’ve got no motive. The method is hinky, and the opportunity might or might not be manufactured. Paisley might not even be our perp; he’s just the most likely.” He kicked his desk in frustration. “Fuck!”

Tony glared at the map, wondering where their perp might show up next. He wasn’t going to his apartment, but he needed to eat, eliminate, clean up, and change clothing. So where had he been doing that for the last three or four days? 

“Tim? Where, in relation to the target area, did Bets live? Show me.”

Tim pinpointed Bets’ address on the map, and they finally got a break. Bets’ apartment was right on the edge of the target area. Paisley had been haunting his stomping grounds, the places he frequented most. He’d probably been staying out of sight, but calling whenever he saw him in a spot he considered safe. 

Tony finally got copies of the texts between the two men. Paisley was vague: they needed to meet up, it was important that they speak in person, things were too delicate to discuss over the phone. The last text suggested that they meet during Bets’ daily run in Rock Creek Park. They still didn’t know why.

Gibbs sighed. “Well, we’ve got opportunity. Paisley knew that Bets ran in the park, and his schedule. But we still don’t know why. This is really pissin’ me off.”

Tim glared at his monitor. “We might never know. If we prove he did it, he might tell. It really looks like we’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to convict. I know there’s enough to get a warrant. I’ve got that in the works.”

They settled in to use the available security cameras, public and private, to watch several locations, while agents were dispatched to watch others. Tim kept his eye on the feeds, while Tony went to one location with Remy and Gibbs went to another with Dean. Cosmo stayed to keep an eye on Tim. Jimmy and Ducky had autopsies on the lady, a couple of Seamen who’d drowned, and a Culinary Specialist who’d dropped dead of a heart attack.

Abby was coping with a ton of tests from four different cases and bitching loudly about it. She was still refusing to have an assistant, claiming that the best assistant she’d ever had was a SEAL who was now posted to “somewhere fucking classified, Africa.” 

.

[Chapter 5]

 

Their luck finally broke late that afternoon. Paisley showed up at Bets’ apartment, showing up on the traffic camera on the corner across the street. Tim radioed Tony, and Gibbs then kept an eye on the front and back doors via camera.

Gibbs, Dean, Remy, and Tony made it to the apartment in record time, not that it was that hard, as Tony and Remy were five blocks away, while Gibbs and Dean were six. A quick consultation set Dean on the back door and Remy on the front; there was no fire escape from the apartment. Gibbs and Tony went up the three floors.

Gibbs pounded on the door, “Paisley, open the door. NCIS.”

They heard a bit of scrambling around, then the door opened a bit. Tony shouldered it the rest of the way open and stuck his sidearm in Bets’ [Paisley's] face. “NCIS! Hands up.” Gibbs backed around until they had Paisley in a crossfire.

Paisley knelt on the floor when Tony told him to. Gibbs cuffed him.

“Ok, asswipe, you’re under arrest for the murder of Petty Officer Calvin Bets.” He then read Paisley his Article Thirteen rights as they walked to the elevator. He ended up by saying, “Do not resist us. I’m not in the mood.”

Gibbs called Remy and Dean in; they met in the front entryway. “Remy, you stay here with us. Dean, you go get the SUV. Thanks.” 

Remy took position behind Paisley while Gibbs and Tony flanked him. Dean came back with the SUV within five minutes, and they returned to the Yard.

The return to the Yard was accomplished in silence, mainly because every time Paisley tried to say something, someone told him to shut up. They checked through security, entered the building, and signed in. Gibbs and Dean escorted Paisley to Interrogation, while Tony and Remy went to check in with Tim and Cos.

They left Paisley to sweat while they did the paperwork generated by the surveillance and arrest. There was more to be done later, but that was for later. They needed to have all this done if Paisley decided to lawyer up.

While this was going on, Paisley was sweating it out, literally. He was actually sweating so hard that his shirt was wet at the neck and armpits, and he’d soaked it between his shoulder blades. He was in really deep shit, and he knew it.

Gibbs slammed the door open, marched in, and sat down at the table, slapping a folder onto the top as he did so. “Okay, you want to tell me why you were calling Bets every hour on the hour? You lovers?”

Paisley blinked then exclaimed, “What? No! We’re not! I’m straight!”

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. “Oh?” he drawled, voice gentle. “You’re straight but you call another man over 300 times? Why is that?”

Paisley gulped, paled, and fidgeted.

“Sit still!” Gibbs barked at the man, continuing his questioning with ruthless brutality. 

The Chief Petty Officer was a pencil pusher and soft. He might be in the military, but he was the equivalent of an accountant.

Gibbs kept at him for an hour, but really didn’t get much of anywhere. Paisley admitted to calling Bets regularly, on his breaks and lunch hour. Since he worked out of a recruiting office in the area, that explained the locations, but didn’t explain the calls.

Finally Gibbs picked up his folder and stormed out. He met Tony in the hall and had to grin. Tony had donned his uniform, complete with ribbon rack and sidearm. “You gonna have a go at him?” Gibbs opened the door to the observation room and entered; just before he closed the door he said, “He pisses himself and you’re cleanin’ it up.”

Tony snorted softly in amusement, remembering the time he’d come in and their perp had promptly wet himself, as Tony had been his SERE trainer.

He walked into the room, settled into the chair with his back to the mirror, and demanded, “You gonna tell me what I want to know, or are we gonna have a problem?”

Paisley eyed him for a moment then whimpered, “But he owed me money. All I wanted was my money.”

Tony eyed him for a moment then demanded, “So you ganked him for how much?”

“He owed me a thousand dollars. He borrowed it six months ago and was making payments until about four months ago. I just ... cornered him on the trail and asked. He told me his sister needed it more. He said he’d pay me when his sister got settled again. But it’s my money and I needed it. I just gave him a little shove. He slipped and fell and he didn’t get up. I ran and ... I was just scared.” He started to cry. “I’m so sorry. I am ... really. But he owed me.” He stuttered off, whimpering and crying about how it was his money and he wanted it, and he didn’t mean it, he was so sorry.

Tony eyed the blubbering man with some disgust, pushed a package of tissues, a pad and a pen at him and snarled, “Stop blubbering. Blow your nose. Write it all down.” He gathered up the file and left.

Gibbs met him in the hall. “Well, shit. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a while. All over less than a thousand dollars. Like it would have hurt him to let the man finish helping his sister. Come on.” He walked away expecting Tony to follow.

Tony did. “If you hadn’t softened him up, we’d still be in there. We make a good team. Some day ... I’d love to see you go DI on some idiot.”

Gibbs smirked over his shoulder. “If I did, they wouldn’t survive it.”

“Probably right.” Tony shrugged, nodded to the two uniformed guards who were coming to take Paisley down to lockup as soon as he was finished. “Keep him in the room until one of us goes over his confession. I’d stay, but I have to start my report, and I want out of here in the worst way.”

The two guards saluted, which Tony returned. “Yes, sir. I’ll bring it up myself.”

“Thank you.” Tony turned and ambled after Gibbs. He was aware that Gibbs rarely said “thank you” for anything at work, but he’d always thought it was stupid; a “thank you” didn’t cost anything, and it helped a lot.

Gibbs ignored the by-play, concentrating on getting things done so they could go home at a reasonable hour. Now that the case was over, they needed a bit of down time. Maybe a trip to the pub would be a good idea.

“Thought, if we get things done in time, might go to Murphy’s or O’Malley’s for a bit of a celebration.”

Tony nodded. “Be good. Need a bit of a break. Darts.” 

His gleeful expression led to Gibbs’ groaning, “No. Absolutely no darts. You’re just stupid weird.” 

They made it to their desk without noticing the mousy Nancy hiding under the stairwell behind the cubicle wall. She watched and listened, then just stood up and walked out. “No one ever notices me. What? I’m invisible?”

Gibbs went over the confession, signed off on it, and sent the whole mess to Legal. He checked and signed the transfer papers to send Paisley to Quantico and Bets’ body to the funeral home. He sighed, rubbed his face, and ordered, “Okay, people, wind this circus up and let’s get out of here.” An hour later they were all headed for home to change and meet back up at O’Malley’s Pub for a small celebration.   
.

The Pod broke up into GHQ and MM groups, heading out to clean up and get ready. Abby trotted off to her hotrod with a happy wave, agreeing to meet them at O’Malley’s in about an hour.

Tony offered the opinion that, “That means she’ll show up about 2000 and wonder why we’ve already eaten.”

Gibbs shook his head. “She would, but she won’t. I’ll call her in thirty minutes and tell her not to be late. She’s ... distractible.”

Tim agreed. “She is. Her mind works somewhat like a pachinko machine. Keeping her on task is a job and a half. But ... she is brilliant.”

Remy nodded. “She is.” He grinned at Tim. “Hear you and she were an item.”

“Ages ago. Rule Twelve. Not that we were serious, more ... she wanted a hot body to go to clubs with her when Tony wasn’t available. We both sort of ... cooled that idea. I’m not a convenience.”

Tony agreed. “I don’t mind if she gives me a couple of days’ notice, but callin’ at 1900 to head out at 2000? ... no.”  
.

Nancy managed to overhear that her love was going to a nasty bar, that Abigail had a voice like a loudspeaker and no common sense at all. 

She went home and wrote in her journal. She looked over her treasures, then fixed a lonely dinner. It just wasn’t any fun to eat alone; she couldn’t wait until Timmy saw that their love was true and joined her. Now that she was sure he would get her letters again, she sat down and wrote one, using a sheet of paper from her printer. One of these days she’d get around to getting something nice, like that pink stuff Stefanie used. She really regretted the argument they’d gotten into over the single sheet she’d borrowed. 

After cleaning up after her dinner she decided to go to that disgusting bar and see if she couldn’t lure Timmy out, perhaps for a nice walk or something.

.

The group gathered just outside the pub and entered together, even Abby. She’d managed to keep her mind on getting ready, but only because Remy had called her every fifteen minutes to remind her to get off the computer, phone and whatever and get ready to come in. She’d managed and looked very nice in a pair of jeans painted with spider webs and dotted with tiny bedazzled spiders; her t-shirt was blood red with a Rocky Horror Picture Show mouth in black. She had managed to find a pair of Mary Jane style platform shoes to match her shirt.

Tony, Dean, and Gibbs were dressed in office casual with Docker pants and rugby shirts in different colors. Cosmo, Jimmy, and Remy wore jeans and t-shirts, while Ducky looked like exactly what he was in a tweed sport jacket and dark brown trousers. 

They took a table near the kitchen, between the dance floor and the back door. 

After settling in with a pitcher of draft, they consulted the menu. Abby wanted one of those appetizer plates that had some of everything. No one else cared much except Gibbs, who ordered potato skins with extra bacon. Ducky tisked absently but admitted to wanting ‘cheesy chips’. 

The waitress took their orders, grinned at the amount of food ordered, then asked, “Mister, are you sure you want cheese-covered potato chips? Sounds like a soggy mess to me.”

Ducky chuckled. “I see we have a failure to communicate.” Tony rolled his eyes and snickered. “As a Scotsman, I call French fries, chips. What you call chips, I call crisps. Make a plate of fries, put shredded cheese on them, then broil them to melt the cheese.”

“Now, that I can do. I’ll have that up in ten. The rest will be done in fifteen.” She flipped her book shut, tucked it away, and headed for the kitchen. She wasn’t about to leave this sort of order up to the POS system. 

The whole group settled in to drink beer, listen to the group, and visit. 

Tim got into a tiff with Abby. She wanted to dance; he wasn’t about to get on the dance floor, period. He hated the group, didn’t dance country, and wasn’t in the mood to be in a spotlight. Abby settled back with a bit of a pout, but admitted that it probably wasn’t that good an idea for him to be so visible.

The food came and with it, a note, addressed to ‘My Beloved, Timmy’. Tim took one look at it and freaked. “No one eat anything. Miss! Miss!” The waitress returned and Tim asked, “Where did this note come from? Did you leave our food unattended?”

The waitress got ready to be offended then realized that they were all really upset. “No. I got it out of the kitchen myself. We don’t put food on a divider, under lights. It’s all put on a table in the kitchen with the tickets. We pick it up, put it on a tray and bring it out. Something wrong?”

Tim showed her the note. “Stalker. This is not good.”

Tammy sighed. “Well shit. The lady asked me to deliver the note with the food. She never got near it. I was up by the front register when she asked. I thought it was sweet that she didn’t want to interfere with guy time.” She looked around. “I don’t see her now. Mousy thing. Looked like she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I’m really sorry.”

Gibbs managed to pat her on the back. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. Not your job anyway.”

The group huddled up, picking at the food in absent silence.

Tim scowled at his toasted ravioli as if it had personally insulted him. “This sucks. I wish that ... bitch would just leave me alone. I never did anything to her; why is she doing this?”

Tony shrugged, nibbled at a mozzarella stick, then offered, “Never know why a nutjob does what they do. Could be, she’s convinced that you ought to fuck her. Or maybe she’s pissed because you ... ignore her. Who the hell knows? And do we really care?”

Dean said, “Obsessive compulsive behaviors usually don’t really have a reason. At least, not one that makes sense to those of us who are sane.”

Cosmo scowled into his schooner, watching the suds swirl. “I don’t care about all that shit. To boil it down to basics: We’ve got a problem. We need to nullify the problem. How do we do that? We find the problem and deal. With extreme prejudice. Simple.”

Remy nodded. “Simple. Not easy.”

Tim swallowed the last of his third beer and snarled, “I’ve done everything I know how to do to find her. That Shredgate fiasco put an end to any hope until she sends something worth working with. And around and around we go. Ad infinitum.” He scowled at Abby, who had swooped in the second she realized what Tim had and collected it. How she stuffed everything in that tiny purse was beyond all of them.

Abby announced, “This time I’ve got something to work with, I’m sure of it. I’m gonna catch a mouse.” Her grin made the Pod all smile. “No one, and I mean no one, hurts my Timmy and gets away with it.” She tucked her arm into Tim’s and tugged him to his feet. She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.

Tim smiled down at Abby; despite the shoes, he was still just a bit taller than she was. “That’s my girl.”

He didn’t get any farther, as Nancy finally couldn’t take it anymore. She jumped up, causing the band to stutter to a halt as the musicians tried to figure out what was going on. “No! NOnono! You can’t have him! He’s mine. You get your hands off him, you slut.”

The whole Pod turned to stare at the mousy woman with a gun pointed at Abby. 

Her shrieks had attracted the attention of the rest of the room, the band, and the staff. At the sight of the weapon, people screamed, ran, or did something else to create chaos. The Pod closed in around Tim and Abby, turning to face the threat.

Gibbs eyed the woman’s shaky hands and muttered, “Twenty-five caliber Colt Vest Pocket Auto.”

Tim pushed Abby behind him, and Gibbs grabbed her hand before she could do anything. “Be still.” 

Abby settled down. She was worried, but kept her cool; everyone would be disappointed if she had a hissy. She squinted at the woman, then whispered, “Nancy Jones. Her name is Nancy Jones. She’s one of the Evidence Check-in Team.”

Tim frowned at that. He didn’t remember her at all. 

The rest of the pub was still chaos, so Gibbs whistled shrilly, then bellowed, “Down! Everyone, down!” this caused about a third of the people to fall on the floor. Another third ignored his order and continued to jam the back door, which no one could open, as it swung inward. The rest seemed to have turned into panicked chickens as they ran to and fro in the room, screaming and shouting. The staff struggled to get customers out the front or clear them away from the back door so it could be opened. The Pod ignored the chaos with the contempt of the combat-hardened veterans that they were.

Nancy was flustered by all the noise, but kept her eyes on her love, who was now surrounded by that bunch of nasty soldiers and that hussy. If she could get him out, they could be happy together. All she had to do was make him see.

“Stop it! Stop! Just ... Stop screaming! Get out!” Nancy seemed to have some sense. She waved her tiny weapon at the host and ordered, “Get them all out of here. All of them!”

He took this to mean exactly what it sounded like, so he started shoving his way to the back door, dragging Ducky with him. He managed to get people pulled away from the door enough to open it, then lost his advantage as they all pushed and shoved their way out the single open door, knocking him to the side as they did so. But this got most of the people out of the room, as most of the people on the floor took advantage of Nancy’s distraction to make breaks for the front, kitchen, or back; whichever seemed safest to them.

Tony snarled softly, “Yes, please. Let’s all run into the line of fire like an idiot,” as two couples actually darted between Nancy and the group, now fronted by Tim.

Nancy watched this with satisfaction; now Timmy would see that she could take care of him properly. “You, bitch, get away from my Timmy!” She waggled the Colt in what she thought was a commanding way. The entire Pod winced as one. 

Abby, nudged by Gibbs, eased away from Tim, carefully. Remy put her behind the entire group and put himself between her and harm. She peeked around him, frowning.

Jimmy took a step up so he could whisper to Tim. Nancy took exception to that and snarled, “You! You dirty ... you stay away from my Timmy.” Jimmy held his ground. 

Nancy was so focused on Tim that she didn’t notice as the Pod shuffled, moving Abby completely out of the line of fire under Dean’s watch. They moved around until they had her in a crossfire. She didn’t realize that they were all armed with 9mm. They all carried a Sig Sauer P226, the official sidearm of the Navy SEAL’s. She was so outgunned, it wasn’t even funny. And no one was taking this less than seriously.

Tim listened as Jimmy whispered, “Don’t get too familiar. You don’t want to have her thinking you like her, or even know her. Do not call her by name, or let her touch you. Keep her talking until we can move in on her.”

“Stop it! Stop whispering! If you can’t say it out loud, don’t say it at all. Get away. Tim! You have to come with me. These dirty men will ruin you.” Nancy didn’t know what that geeky jerk was saying and she didn’t care. He didn’t need to be saying anything to her Timmy at all.

Tim frowned, then offered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you, do I? Have we met?”

Nancy made a fizzling sound, somewhat like a wet firework. “You don’t know. You have no idea. I’ve watched you. You’re better than all of them put together. You’re ... they’re terrible, terrible people. They’re trying to keep us apart, to deny our love. They’ve done something to you.”

Tim listened as she ranted about how she was his only love. She loved him more than anyone, ever. He finally interrupted her. “I’m sorry. I don’t love you. We don’t know each other. I’m not sure what you want.”

Nancy was getting frantic. She just knew that, if Timmy could see her souvenirs, he’d understand. She tried to convince him to come with her. “Come with me. You’ll see. I have all your things that you lost. That special pen you like. Your shirt, the pretty blue one.” 

Jimmy groaned, “Oh, damn, she’s got a shrine. This is not good.”

Tim agreed, sotto voce, “No shit. Now what.”

Gibbs hissed, “Keep her distracted. Dean’s nearly in position.”

Dean, sneaking up beside Nancy made a grab for her and missed because he tripped over a bottle on the floor. He flailed, trying to keep his balance and grab Nancy, but missed.

Nancy screamed when Dean jumped her, then jumped back. “No! You can’t have him! He’s mine!” and she pulled the trigger, twice. 

Both bullets hit Tim right in the chest. He staggered back a bit with a grunt. “Ow.”

Remy steadied him while Gibbs, Dean and Cosmo wrestled a sobbing, screaming Nancy to the floor. Tony and Jimmy got between Tim and another shot. Dean got the Colt while Cosmo got Nancy in an arm bar. Gibbs snapped handcuffs on her, then rushed to check on Tim.

Jimmy had that well in hand, stripping Tim down to his vest and t-shirt with ruthless efficiency. Tim slapped at his hands, exclaiming, “I’m fine. Fuck! Damn it. Ow.”

Jimmy snarled, “You fuckin’ got shot in the chest, twice.”

“Yeah, and it hurts like a mother fucker. Right on the stab plate.” Tim rubbed his breast bone. “Tony made me wear a vest.”

 

FLASHBACK

 

Tony followed Tim down the hall, holding one of the new slimline bulletproof vests out. “Come on, Tim. It’s barely there. Give it a try. If it’s really uncomfortable you can slip out and dump it in the SUV.”

Tim eyed the vest, then sighed, “Okay, okay, Mom. But it’s not really bulletproof. They’re only resistant. If you get shot from close range or with large enough caliber, it’ll get through.”

Tony started pulling Tim’s shirt off. “True, true. But it’ll still help. Put it on.”

Tim slapped Tony’s hands away and took his shirt off himself. “I said okay. Stop tugging on me. I’m doin’ it. Jerk.”

 

END [FLASHBACK]

 

Jimmy sighed, “Remind me to kiss him later.”

Tim scowled at him. “Jerk.”

“Not. That’s Cosmo.”

Cosmo, hearing his name looked over. “You whined?”

“No. That’s Tim.” Jimmy finished his examination quickly then said, “And you’re gonna hurt like some’bitch tomorrow.”

“Tell me about it.” Tim rubbed his chest again. “Bitch.”

Gibbs overheard that. “Better get your damn shirt back on. Cops are here.”

The cops came in hot, ready for anything but what they got.

Remy pushed a still hysterical Nancy into one SWAT officer’s arms, ordering, “Fuckin’ take her out of here before I do something ... ungentlemanly.”

The SWAT officer latched onto one of Nancy’s arms while another grabbed the other. Tony turned the Colt over to the CO, explaining, “She shot him ...” he pointed to Nancy then Tim. “With that. Been stalking him for ... we’re not sure how long. Nuts.” He shook his head. “I’m sick of nutjobs. Really.” He turned around and yelled, “NO ONE GETS ANOTHER DAMN STALKER FUCKWAD!! EVER!”

Gibbs barked, “Listen up! No one! Hear me?”

Various versions of “You got it, Boss.” came from different parts of the room.

Abby scurried out of her safe spot and grumbled, “Tim, really. I thought Michael was bad.”

Tim sighed, “Ow,” then moaned. “Fuck, some squirrel called the EMTs. Just what I fuckin’ need.”

Tony snarled, “You do. I have to have their assessment for my damn report. Next time you get shot, you’re doin’ the bale a’ paperwork.” He stomped off, grumbling under his breath to lead the EMTs in.

Gibbs took a second to really check on Tim then told him, “No more getting fuckin’ shot. Seriously. I’m grey enough as it is, damn it.”

Tim shot back indignantly. “You really think I like getting shot? Pu-leaze.” 

The EMTs put an end to the byplay as one of them tried to get Tim to lie down on the gurney to be transported to the hospital. He just calmly told him to do a damn assessment on site, then take off. When the senior EMT tried to argue with him, he snarled, “Fuck that shit. It was a damn .25 caliber. The bullets hit right on the stab plate. Tony punches harder than that ... Hell, Abby punches harder. Just take a picture, write out that I refused treatment, and leave me alone.”

The EMTs eyed him for a moment, then one of them snarled. “Damn SEALs. Okay, okay.” He scribbled on a form, held the clipboard out to Tim, saying, “Sign there.” Tim signed, accepted his copy of the form, which he folded, then handed to Abby. 

Abby took charge of the form, the two pages that the CO of SWAT gave Gibbs, and the report that someone scribbled out on a yellow pad. She tucked it all away in her purse; she’d put it all on Gibbs’ desk in the morning. “Okay, how much longer do we have to stay?”

The supervisor who was in charge of the crime scene turned. “As long as it takes.”

Abby, tired and still wired snarled back, “Look. Do not get shirty with me. I’m tired; my best friend just got shot. That nutjob has made our lives miserable for the last ... I don’t know how long and all I asked was a civil question of ‘how much longer.’ The least you could do is be nice. Jerk.”

The supervisor blinked. “Miss, you don’t realize all the ...”

Abby actually growled, then she snapped, “Do not call me ‘miss’ in that tone of voice. I’m not a child, and I’m not stupid. If you need a report, call NCIS in the morning. I’m goin’ home, and I don’t care that you’re just doin’ your stupid job. You could do it a lot more politely.”

Gibbs stopped the man from putting his foot in it any deeper. “Shut up. She’s right. We’re all tired and want to go home. So that’s what we’re gonna do. You’ll get a debrief in the morning. Not like I can’t do the interviews.” He waved his ID under the man’s nose, then called, “We’re leavin’. Put wheels under this bitch.” And with that they all left, collecting a rater pissed Ducky at the tape.

.

Tim ached all over. Taking two in the chest was no fun, didn’t matter the caliber. Jimmy fussed over him when they got home, telling Ducky all about it while the elder doctor checked Tim for his own peace of mind. 

Tony hovered until Tim told him to stop. He couldn’t get the image of the impacts out of his mind, so he cooked. He filled the freezer and refrigerator with goodies, casseroles… whatever he could think of that Tim liked. Ducky finally came down to tell him to go to bed at nearly 0300. He eyed the mess in the kitchen, then drooped. “Off with you, young man. The mess will keep until we can get around to it.” 

Ducky firmly escorted Tony up to his room, then trudged to his own. He wasn’t a bit surprised when he heard Tony enter Tim’s room. He was well aware of Tim, Tony, and Jimmy’s habit of nesting up together when they were stressed. He expected to have to wake them in the morning.

.

While Tony was cooking, Gibbs was indulging in a meltdown of his own. 

“Damn it. I should have been smarter. I should have gotten to her before she got to Tim.” Gibbs ran a hand through his hair.

Remy just caught him on his next circuit of the kitchen. “Non, mon ami. Come on. You need to sit down. All this pacing isn’t good. Come.” He tugged Gibbs toward the basement door. “We’ll go down. You need to rest. So do I.”

Gibbs allowed Remy to tug him into the basement. “Hell of a damn shock to the system.” 

Dean nodded to Remy just as Cosmo crawled out from under the boat. “Nest up.” 

Gibbs crawled into the nest under the boat. Remy followed him, then Dean and Cosmo. It wasn’t long before all four men were sound asleep, cuddled together under Gibbs’ boat.  
.

Leon Vance was in a really foul mood. He’d started last evening well; Jackie had managed to send Kayla on a sleep-over, and Jarod was at a scouting event. This meant that they had the house to themselves. When the phone rang, he answered, “What!” He listened, then snarled, “I’ll be in in thirty.” Jackie just blew out the candles and put the food in the fridge. 

When he got in, he found his desk buried under paper, figuratively speaking. He had reports from DCPD, complaints from the owner of the pub, requests from several news agencies for information, and a psych eval that was days too late. He had several callback memos as well. 

Now, it was 0645 and he’d been putting out fires all night. He’d had to send teams to several places overseas for various reasons, but the local shit was what was really making him crazy. The reporters called every five minutes, and Cheryl was having trouble keeping his lines cleared. SecNav wanted to know what the hell was going on. He, Leon Vance, was still trying to sort things out, and the lack of reports from the MCRT was just the shit cherry on top of the slime sundae that was all his.

He looked up when Gibbs came walking in the door. “Coffee?” his hopeful tone and expression made Gibbs chuckle.

“Yup. Here. One of those grand vant things. And reports will be on your desk A-SAP.” He ambled back out, nothing in his demeanor indicating his lack of sleep and deep upset. Remy had helped with the nest and the SEAL pile, but they’d all spent a restless night and gotten up grumpy and unrested. 

Gibbs returned to his desk to find everyone at their desks, busily finishing up their reports. “I want someone at her apartment. And Tim, desk duty until Ducky gives you a pass. See if you can’t get something from whatever lockup she’s in.”

“On it, Boss. I’ll see if the supervisor will tell me something.” Tim turned not to his computer, but to his phone. The detective in charge of the case had exchanged cards with him. He placed the call and sighed. “On hold, boss. Might be awhile.”

Gibbs just nodded and sent Tony and Remy to Nancy’s apartment. Dean and Cosmo were still working on their reports.

After a quick visual assessment of his team, Gibbs returned to his paperwork, grumbling, “Damn nutjob had to shoot Tim; now I’ve got a Foxtrot Tango of paperwork to deal with. Shit.”

.

It took half an hour to get to Nancy’s apartment building, including the side trip through a drive-through for coffee and something that resembled breakfast. They swallowed the food in a few bites, and held onto the coffee like a lifeline.

It took them nearly another hour to convince the manager to let them into the apartment. They only managed it when two DC detectives showed up with a search warrant. The detectives agreed to share, as Tim was the person who’d been shot. 

Tony offered, “Thanks, Detective ...” he waited until the senior officer gave names. “Franklin. It’s ... we’re all still a bit in shock. It’s really scary to see your partner shot right before your eyes. I’m still a bit shaky, to tell the truth.”

The junior detective started to say something stupid, but shut up when Detective Franklin snarled at him. 

The junior detective, Jason Davis, unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping to the side. Tony entered to the left, while Remy went right. Detective Franklin moved into backup position.

It didn’t take them long to clear the tiny apartment. There were only four rooms; bedroom, bath, living room and kitchen/dining room. The first thing they really noticed was the wall between the living room and the kitchen/dining room, it was covered with photos of Tim, and situated off in the corner was a table covered with folded clothing, pens, cups, a towel and a rather ragged and scorched blanket. In other words, a shrine.

Franklin eyed the shrine and offered, “Well, stalker proven. Now what?”

Tony made the decision to have the whole apartment gone over by their crime scene techs. “I’ll call in a team to just ... empty the place out. That woman is in for a thirty-day, and I don’t think she’s coming out. If she does, we’ll give her back her shit ... minus Tim’s stuff. She’ll have to sort it herself.” He made the call, and the apartment was soon crawling with techs as DCPD had sent their people too. 

They agreed to send it all to Abby, but DCPD wanted one of their people on scene, so he supervised collection and labeling, then went with everything in NCIS’s truck. They took everything except her furniture and kitchen things, every bit of fabric, paper, and anything else a team of forensic techs thought might be of interest. 

No one was exactly sure why they were taking all this stuff, but they weren’t about to argue. One of their own had been attacked, and everyone wanted to know why. Human Resources was in the hot seat, as was Personnel. Someone should have seen something. HR was still trying to find out how Dr. Oberg had managed to keep his job so long, as it was now obvious that he didn’t do his work in a “timely and appropriate” manner. In other words, the shitstorm had just started. Vance was on the warpath; worse, Gibbs was too. The fallout was just starting.

.

Tony settled at his desk to check that all the reports were in and acceptable. It didn’t take him long to send everything off via email. He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his face. 

“Remy, make a breakfast run, please.” 

Remy nodded. “Burritos, coffee?”

“Yeah, sounds great.” Tony relaxed a bit. Things were still tense. “Tim.”

“AJ?”

“No more stalkers. Seriously. Just no.”

Tim eyed Tony for a moment, then grumbled, “If you think I wanted a stalker, you’re ... a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. Jerk.”

Tony grinned. “I’ll be a full picnic soon. Remy’s goin’ for sandwiches in a minute.”

Dean smacked Tony on the shoulder. “Burrito’s not a sandwich.”

Tony replied in an indignant tone, “Is to. Mexican sandwich, but it qualifies.”

Cosmo shook his head. “Mexicans have regular sandwiches. Just like Americans.” 

Tony took exception to this and headed for Cosmo. Cosmo took off, darting around Gibbs in a break for the clear area in front of the elevators. Just as he reached the area, the elevator doors opened and Ducky stepped out. Cosmo darted behind Ducky, looking extremely silly as he attempted to hide behind the much smaller man. 

Tony tried to dodge Ducky to get to Cosmo, but Cosmo kept Ducky between them.

“Cos! Come out and take it like a man. Bitch.” Tony danced one way, then the other, trying to get hold of Cosmo.

Cosmo was just as determined that Tony wasn’t getting hands on him. The rest of the team was laughing their heads off at their antics.

Ducky, caught in the middle of this silliness, ordered, “The both of you settle down.” 

Tony made one last grab at Cosmo. Ducky rolled his eyes. “Enough!”

Cosmo nodded from his hiding place behind Ducky. “Yeah, jerk, enough.”

Ducky settled the whole thing by elbowing Cosmo in the gut without even looking. 

The entire squad room howled with laughter at his indignant, “Ow! Ducky, no fair!”

Ducky corralled Tony and swatted him too. “Back to your desks, both of you.”

Gibbs snickered into his coffee. “And that is, as they say, that.”

.

 

I know a lot of you are going to say that the situation with the evidence wasn’t possible, but it has actually happened. IT people have a totally different view of things, and data is data to them; whether it’s digital or hard copy, the information is there. Lawyers, on the other hand, want the originals, silly people that they are. *G*

CYA - cover your ass - pronounced see-ya  
Gomer - reference to the TV show Gomer Pyle, USMC. The name came from the GOMAR - General Officer Memorandum of Reprimand, which is a ‘write-up.’

It is not ‘laced into;’ it is ‘laced with.’ Period. (Amen; “laced into” means really gave someone a chewing-out! ;D)

OOC - in this case it’s not Out Of Character, it’s Out Of Contact.

POS system - point of sale.


End file.
